


Not Like This / Like This

by chemiglee



Series: Not Like This [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemiglee/pseuds/chemiglee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaction fic to Shooting Star, 4x18. Blaine, Sam, and Tina deal with the aftermath of the shooting incident at McKinley.  </p><p>Takes place before Sweet Dreams 4.19.  </p><p>Trigger warnings for homophobic slurs, fighting (no weapons, nothing graphic), flashback nightmares about Blaine's first Sadie Hawkins experience, and references to Dave Karofsky's suicide attempt and bullying of Kurt.  Angst is really not the focus. What they do to help each other is the focus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina POV when she was caught outside during the shooting incident.

Somehow, Tina got caught in a massive, undulating crowd of other students. They pushed her relentlessly towards the bus. She didn't know how she got there; only that Principal Figgins wouldn't let her go back in the school and she couldn't believe it but this might be it and how? why? why? why?

Tina was young. She thought she'd get to say goodbye when they were all old, laughing, telling jokes around a hospital bed somewhere, or at someone's wake. Surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren. After a long, blissful life of ups and downs, hopes and fears, dreams and (maybe) nightmares, struggles overcome. 

_Not like this._

_Not like this._

As they were herded and bundled into school buses, Tina kept looking back at the school. Her head swiveled back and forth, craning her neck to get a look back at school to see if any of the other kids were in the crowds being pushed outside. She was pushed and pulled every which way. Her feet were stepped on and she lost her backpack somewhere in the chaos, but she couldn't think to where she dropped it. Nor did she really care. Couldn't feel anything but the ache in her bones. _Where are they? What happened to them? Are they okay? Are they hurt? Are they bleeding, sick and scared and alone? Alone with no one to help them? Where are they? Where are they? Where are they?_

She was frantic, her mind, running in endless circles; Sisyphus on his wheel turning round, round round round round, wearing tracks in her tired mind, round, round, round. Uncertainty was more paralyzing than the truth, as awful and final as it might be. Tina liked drama - she was a performer, after all - but she was finding that the reality of it was not something she relished. Instead, Tina was floored and shocked and overwhelmed and again her thoughts went round and round and round.

Part of her was shocked that things that happened only on TV or in other towns and other schools would actually happen here, in Lima, Ohio, where nothing ever happened. And yet here it was. There was a gun. Somewhere in the school. _It had gone off and no one knew who it was and where they were and what was going to happen to us? To my friends? Where are they? Are they okay? Are they hurt?_

_And Mom and Dad and Mike and so many people she was going to lose and who were going to lose her because they would be so frantic about her too. I'm not done with everything. I'm not done being a star. I'm not done loving and living and being._

The world was ending and this isn't how it's supposed to be. 

This isn't how it's supposed to be.

But, for all the time she'd spent fuming inside about Rachel's bad attitude and Finn's hapless bungling of everything in the universe and Marley taking her damn spot and Coach Sylvester singling her out every damn time she saw her... she realized that it was so much time wasted being angry when she could have been making the world a better place... being the change she really did want to bring to the world.

_I could have been more kind to Marley. I could have stopped giving Finn a hard time about everything he screwed up. I could have been more understanding with Jake. I could have would have would have should have_

And Sam and Blaine and.. but there, there, were so many bundled up pent up emotions that it finally broke the dam. Blaine and Kurt are soulmates, there was finally no denying that - Tina had told herself that a long time ago; she knew she would never have him as Kurt had him. Not in that way. But Blaine was the brother she'd never had and the friend she'd been waiting for her entire life. He knew her, sometimes, she felt, to her bones - the same bones that were aching with regret and worry and fear. And she knew him - past the astronomical talent, past the brains and the driven ambition and yes, the bowties and capris; he was flawed and incredibly kind and caring and utterly accepting of all of her flaws, too; and even though he was flawless, he was insecure of himself, too. Because the world had been unkind to him, too, and had taught him harsh lessons that'd brought him to his knees in failure. She knew how that felt, too.

And as Tina was pushed to a seat next to a window, she put her head against the window and balled up her fists and finally let go. She had never known what gold and treasures she had had, and maybe, might never be able to tell them how much she loved them.


	2. Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaction fic to Shooting Star, 4x18. Blaine POV after the shooting incident is over.

When the all-clear went out, Blaine was so relieved that it was all over.

Sam had hugged him, tight.

There hadn’t even been any time to cling together, like two little children afraid of the dark. Blaine had been completely paralyzed. He’d called his mother. At least she knew what she knew; that he loved her. So, so, so much. But he hadn’t been able, or felt able, to do anything real. At least Sam had tried to go to Brittany, had struggled with Coach Bieste and Mr. Schue; at least Sam had tried to do something while Brittany been caught outside who knows where (hiding, scared, hurt, bleeding). Thank God that Mr. Schue (Blaine stopped himself, substituted “my hero”) had had the courage to do what they couldn’t do. He’d risked his life to go get Brittany and the others.

Whereas Blaine couldn’t even act to go find Tina when he realized Tina wasn’t with them. He’d tried, but it was all he could do to lift his hand to cover his face in his crossed arms; he felt like lead. 

It took just a few looks between Blaine and Sam and they each knew where they stood. They couldn’t _help_ , they couldn’t and how could you, when the world was about to tumble down over you? So Blaine had been left to his own thoughts and that was much, much worse than looking down a gun barrel. He knew Sam was thinking the same kinds of things; about his family and Tina and Brittany, always Brittany.

Blaine, for his part, had nothing but time, so his mind wandered the universe while they all waited in seconds, in dread, as the metronome did its endless maddening tick-tick-tick-it-is-the-end. There was so much left to do and so much left to say - to his parents, for his parents; to his friends, for his friends; to Kurt, for Kurt; to everyone in the whole entire world; first and foremost how he loved them and how they were all a part of him. How he never wanted to let anyone of them go ever again.

_What I wouldn’t have done to have the chance, right then, to say everything I wanted to say to each of you. That’s when we would all have listened to each other for the first time._

But the world hadn’t ended and here Sam was, tall and blonde and gangly; his arms were wide and his hug was warm, warm, warm and Blaine, in a floating sea of little thought, desperately wanted to let go. Blaine closed his eyes and lost himself in Sam’s generosity and his comfort and his thankfulness. Kurt was his partner in life and his other half; Tina was his true-born sister in arms; but Sam was just Sam, he was his brother; he was where Blaine ended and where Blaine began. 

Somehow that wasn’t cheating on any of them. Somehow the love he had for each of them made all the other loves in his life multiplied a thousandfold.

Blaine, wordless, put all his emotion into Sam’s embrace.

_I’m so glad that you’re here. Because we’ll save the world, you and I._

Then, the rest of the kids came together, forming a tight circle. They bent their heads and closed their eyes and just - just cherished each other’s warmth. Their emotion felt like they merged and weaved in and between them and held on to them tightly; it held between them, until they couldn’t distinguish where one of them ended and one began. It was a communion. It was a prayer. It was exactly like Blaine had imagined what real prayer was like; without words, all feeling, all thought. His heart had filled again in Sam’s hug, and his heart filled again and again in the circle, touched by some higher power, closing up so as not to let it all go and spill to the ground - until some of them regretfully, quietly let go, with lingering looks and whispered goodbyes.

Blaine kept his eyes closed, because he didn’t want to let go of this moment, not ever. He didn’t necessarily count himself as a very religious person, and he had been taught to respect all faiths - although some of those faiths were not necessarily respectful of him. Kurt had a much harsher opinion of religion than Blaine did, but Blaine knew that Kurt would have opened himself to the prayer in their circle, too. 

The endless circle was just breaking up when there was a cry and a sob: Tina behind them. She was there, she was there, she was all right, she was alive.

 _“Oh!”_ was all Tina said, sobbing like her heart was broken. 

She ran to the circle and pulled Blaine away with arms of herculean strength and that’s when Blaine finally let go and turned to her, Tina filling his view.

He had to. He held her tight. He put his face in her long, curling black hair. He couldn’t help it; he cried, and it dampened her hair, and he knew she was crying into his Cheerios uniform but he didn’t, didn’t care. It felt so good to cry. It felt good to hug Tina, too. She was all soft curves where Sam was all lean muscle, and no, he didn’t love her in that way, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t say he loved her. She was Tina, all bravery and beauty and attitude and smarts and care. Her hair smelled like leaves and spring and life, and her shoulders shook with relief in his arms, like a reed, even as he knew he was shaking with all the pent-up relief he had. 

And when Sam came over to join in, Blaine vaguely felt, somewhere where his feelings were floating somewhere above earth, that something which this day had broken might be put right, or put together better. Now they all really knew, definitely, what they were to each other.

So he decided to say it, because it was the best time, and he never wanted to stop saying it to her, not ever. 

“I love you, Tina.” He closed his eyes.

“I love you too, Blainey.”

It felt so truthful. It felt so good.

Tina struggled for breath and thought. She looked up, and Blaine looked down, and they met each other's eyes. Tears were pooling in hers. She looked over at Sam, and that was when she smiled; tremulously, like she would break. “I wanted to be here. Principal Figgins wouldn’t let me in and I had to stay on the bus. I wanted to be with my Glee family and all I could think about instead was -.”

He broke away and put his lips into her hair again. “I know.” She didn’t have to say anymore. He knew.

Sam muttered, “I love you guys, too,” somewhere between Blaine and Tina. “Where were you, Tina? We were worried sick about you.”

Tina put her face in Blaine’s chest. He moved his arms up from her waist to her shoulders. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I just remembered that I wanted to be here, and I didn’t want it all to end like this - not like this. Not like this, all apart.”

Blaine knew, suddenly, that that had been the answer to his prayer.

Sam knew, too. ”You wanted it to end like this.”

Sam held them both tightly and he didn’t let go for a long, long time.


	3. This Is Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaction fic to Shooting Star, 4x18. Sam POV on how he, Blaine, and Tina are managing after the shooting at McKinley.

Life at McKinley slowly settled into a new, uncomfortable kind of routine. 

Daily schedules, on the outside, didn't change much. They wore the same clothes and hairstyles and still had homework and Glee practice and Cheerios practice and Student Council meetings. Dance rehearsals and tutoring sessions. Skimming Twitter under your desk so your teacher couldn't see, even though you knew they could see the glare of the screen on your face. Even all the classes picked up just where they left off. It all resumed, as if the shooting had been just a deep breath, and they were all now riding the slow exhale. 

Kids lingered at their lockers a lot more. They smiled at kids they didn't know, and they were more apt to hug each other on greeting. They recognized each other more. _You were there. You were one of us._ And when they did, their chins rested on the others' shoulders, and they sighed - just a little. _We survived._

Or they wanted to talk more, even if it was just trivial, even if they were just acquaintances or knew each other casually from English class - _how are you? how was your day? You totally rocked that goal in the soccer game last night, dude. High five! Hey, what's your name? I never got that before, sorry. Let me get your number. I'll text you about the assignment. It's nice to finally meet you._

You could smile at a stranger now, and instead of them turning away, or looking down, or ignoring you, they were more likely to look you square in the eye, and nod. Slushies and dumpster tossing incidents were, more or less, on hiatus. You were more likely to tune out the mice scurrying through the classroom walls or the dense slimy mess that passed for cafeteria green bean casserole. Colors were a little brighter. Hot was hotter, cold was colder. Sam remembered the chocolate cake Carole had brought home from the supermarket the other day and it stayed with him, all that sugary sharpness that clung to your teeth. And the reps during seventh period; he did them until he felt the burn, and found he was getting addicted to how much it hurt. 

People laughed a lot more. Kids you wouldn't have seen together, or would have been caught dead together, before it all went down, were more comfortable with each other. And they'd laugh. It wasn't creepy. It made everyone feel more connected. 

People would stop and look out the windows more. Sam caught himself doing this more often than anyone else. There was a panelled set of windows, close to Ms. Pillsbury's office, and between classes, or after school - as now - he'd look out at the quadrangle, or look out through the hallway as he waited for Brittany to get out of math class. Not that you could see that much outside; the windows were frosted. But he saw, or imagined he saw, that even the light was slanted differently as it stole into the school. And when you went out to the park to kick a ball around, it filtered through the trees less; they looked darker and denser, a little more frightening. It didn't matter what the time of day was; even the sun knew that McKinley had changed. 

Sam looked over his shoulder a lot more when he went to the park. He wasn't afraid, he told himself. It was obvious that he'd have to watch out more carefully. You never knew what was out there. 

_But people are a lot cooler now,_ Sam reflected. _That can't be a bad thing. It's really nice. If we were all just bros all the time, from the beginning, we'd all have less regrets. We've all been through something together. We're all just enjoying our time with each other more because our time's short._

Family meant a lot to Sam, and so did taking care of the people he loved. He felt his tie to his folks every so often when he called home, especially when he got to talk to Stacy or Stevie. They were growing up and getting so tall. He hated that he was missing seeing them grow up. He hated that he didn't get to babysit anymore. When he'd been younger, he'd chafed at the responsibility, and they'd run after him, dragged at his heels. Now? He couldn't wait to see them again, the little rugrats - well, not so little. His parents, who he'd talked to on the phone so long that night - that night - that his mom's battery had died and the conversation had stopped, mid-sentence. He hid under the covers and held a flashlight, like he'd used to do on long camping trips during weekend summers with the family. Sam had closed his eyes and put his parents' faces behind his eyelids, willing himself to remember precisely each line and each plane. But when his mother's phone died, he'd felt a sudden prick of fear. It didn't make any sense, but, there it was. 

_Where did you go? Please please come back. Don't leave me._

He looked furtively around, to the left, where the security guard was slowly making her way towards Sam's window, and to the right, where some freshmen were standing around an open locker. From the way they were moving, Sam guessed they were just watching a video on someone's phone, but the guard had seen the little crowd forming; time to go and break it up. 

Despite all the ups and downs, being homeless, stripping, moving to Kentucky, leaving his friends... he'd been supported. He'd been loved, with open arms, and trust had been returned in him many times over. It was irrational to think they would abandon him, and of course they didn't. His father had called him back right away and they'd talked and talked until everyone got heavy-lidded and stopped making sense, and Sam dropped his phone on the bed, snoring; it was his own phone battery that burned out that time. 

At church, Sam had also been taught that God helps those that help themselves. He accepted it like most other things he encountered: wide open, trustingly. Life hadn't taught him any other way other than to treat everyone fair, as you would have them treat you. He remembered the lesson, and he knew God wanted him to save Brittany. He had needed to get out and get her, or he would die. He would die if he didn't find her. He fought Coach and Mr. Schue, thrashing and flailing, like a half-crazed, desperate animal. He'd babbled, he'd cried out, he couldn't even hear himself; they'd had their arms wound tight around him and about his ears and throat. His mind screamed as he suffocated, a fly trapped in amber. _I have to get to her I have to find her she has no one but me._ He fought until he was exhausted, desperate, lashing out, and he'd nearly got out - nearly got out to get her so I could help her keep her safe. The only thing that had pierced his mind like a needle was Coach, as she always did: _You're going to get them all killed._

He'd stopped, and the sweat ran cold on him, while the metronome went tick-tick-tick-tick-end. She was right. He'd seen, through a haze of blind broken emotions, the frightened face of Unique, leaning against Ryder like she belonged there in the crook of his shoulder, and Kitty with her face pressed into Unique on the other side, suppressing her sobs. Marley had been crying about her songs and Jake trying so hard to be strong. _She's right. I can't. I can't do that to them._

His heart broke, and he wouldn't - didn't want to give up on Brittany, but they were right. So Mr. Schue had been the hero. He'd resented that, just a bit. He was popular, and he worked hard to stay in shape, and he was a leader, looked up to. But some problems were obviously just too much. Sam didn't like problems that he didn't have solutions for, especially as he was so used to be the problem-solver. He didn't like it at all. He let Mr. Schue go. 

When Brittany came back, Sam held on to her like a life-preserver. He'd thought she was the one who needed saving. She'd been the strongest one of them all. So Brittany, strong smart brave Brittany, was going to be all right, under the circumstances. Lord and Lady Tubbington would help a lot. 

He wasn't worried about her as much as he was about Blaine. Blaine was a problem that needed solving. Blaine had frightened him most of all, the way he'd just curled up and laid so still, his face buried in his arms. One time he and his dad and his friends had gone hunting, and Sam had been so proud to go; it was his first hunt to go out and be a man. He never did go again. Blaine reminded him of the doe he'd hit; bleeding from the belly, it had stumbled into the thicket, and Sam had suddenly lost all his enthusiasm for guns. He'd cried. 

Not that he understood Blaine's reaction. Sam liked action. He needed to move. He liked to get up and move around during class. He drove his teachers crazy, clicking his pen or wiggling his knee up and down, or tapping his foot, until one of them had given him a stress ball to squeeze. Blaine wasn't like that. He'd sit still and absorb the hurt and the fear, like a sponge. He'd sit and stay small, protecting his heart in a shell, while everything fell to dust. _Ashes to ashes and dust to dust._

It was why Blaine was a people-pleaser and why he always seemed to get ahead when Sam was bumbling along behind him, trying not to knock anything over. Blaine put up a good front. He was speaking and acting just as normal. Well, except for the twitching from four espresso shots in his morning coffee, and his need to run the air conditioner in his car full blast, so it would hit him in the eyes while he drove, or flinching every time a locker door slammed shut or someone's voice was raised loud. 

Those weren't unusual reactions nowadays. Yes, people smiled more. But they walked in groups more, held their phones tightly, looked out from the corners of their eyes more, scanning dim corners for crouching shadows. They laughed more, but it would get cut short, as if it felt wrong to laugh so soon. 

Maybe it was just time to stop trying to talk about whatever was eating at him and let it lie for a little while until Blaine was more comfortable. Maybe it was just enough for right now to just hang out on weekends and watch movies and play games, because they sure as hell never thought they'd ever have another chance to just be. When they'd get enough time behind him, he'd try again. 

Sam had tried to draw him out, right after it happened. It'd been Sunday afternoon after the Thursday, and they'd lain in Blaine's bed, side by side, with a movie on that wasn't being watched. It was so hard to get Blaine to talk about deep emotional stuff. You had to hit him between the eyes with the truth before Blaine got the message. Sam got him, and then he didn't get him. Blaine was a vague, hazy cloud of confusion nowadays. Tina was better at this kind of thing, but he didn't feel comfortable asking Tina to do his job. 

He didn't know Tina that well, anyway. Tina was a satellite of Blaine, more or less. She was cool to hang out with, but since she was a pal as opposed to a bro, it was easier to think of her and not get all tangled up in his own worry. She played video games well, better than most girls who just mashed buttons. She laughed at his impressions, even if he hadn't practiced them in a while. She was tappable, if push came to shove. She baked good chocolate chip cookies; not as good as his mom's, but close enough, and cookies are cookies, especially when just taken out of the oven, and it had all melted inside. She was kickass at singing and dancing and making costumes, and smart in school, and she read his English and history papers for mistakes and acted happy about helping him. She was sarcastic and snippy at other times, and sometimes she sulked in Glee when she could have been more outgoing - because she'd had lots of chances to be a star, and didn't. She'd been separated from them during the whole thing. Whenever she came into the choir room now, she looked around, always, in disbelief. Like she'd never believed she'd ever come back. So she was always so emotional now. Sam was sympathetic, really, but she didn't go to Sam for comfort. 

The hand-holding with Blaine stuff. That nudged at a line that made Sam wonder if she was really over him. _Blaine, you dumbass. Stop encouraging her. She's lonely and it's putting ideas in her head. It's not a good time to be doing all of that._

The hand-holding seemed to help Blaine. Maybe it would be fine, for now. 

Sam made a mental note to talk to him, when he was feeling up to it. It was pretty clear that Blaine wasn't over anything. And they hadn't talked about Kurt at all since it all happened, and that was the most alarming thing of all. Then again, he hadn't dared to ask. Maybe they'd talked but he hadn't told Sam anything about it.

That worried him, too. _Don't push me away, Blaine. I hate pushing and pulling at you, but don't you think I'll give up on you._

He turned away from the windows, put his back to them, and, thinking much better of it, shifted over until his back was against concrete.

At least we're alive. Sam had been surprised that he hadn't been afraid to die, not at first. That had come later, when the fear settled into a dark pool somewhere in his stomach; cold and unsettling. _We're alive and we've got to make it count._

The morning after, Sam had gotten up early. He plugged in his phone to soak up whatever power it could, rubbed his eyes clear of sleep, and he crept out to meet the day. The stairs squeaked softly as he crept down, on the Hudson-Hummels' staircase, to the first floor. He pulled at the glass door to the backyard, grimacing as it stuck. In Carole's vegetable garden, he'd stood, in his sweatpants and bare feet, and watched silently as the sun continued its rise, past pinkish and orange clouds, rubbing his forearms. 

_Hey there, sunshine._ He'd stood and raised his face, eyes closed, to meet the sun. And yeah, he wasn't wearing sunscreen. _I'm glad to be alive. I'm glad I'm not dead. Thank God. Thank God._

The memory of that heat full on his skin kept a glow inside of him. That was his cue to smile, to get a little sparkle in his eye. He began to whistle. Sam looked the new world order squarely in the eye, and Sam was the first to blink. Guns in her holster, walkie-talkie on her hip, she was all grim, no-nonsense attitude. The freshmen had scurried away a long time ago. She stared at Sam, with naked suspicion, sweeping an impersonal eye over him, as the whistle died on his lips. 

Sam looked after her, long after she disappeared down the hallway to the right. _No, everything was different._ He decided he didn't like it at all. He walked out alone to his truck, where the spring air had suddenly turned cold, and he walked fast. Maybe he'd call his parents again tonight.


	4. Say This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the Glee kids say what they need to say to each other.

I  
Athletics was back, and McKinley threw itself into all the spring games with unusual enthusiasm. School spirit at this time of year would have been at an all-year low, since it was football who was king in Lima. In that, Lima is like any other small town where nothing _ever_ happens.

The incident at McKinley had actually triggered an up-swing in attendance at the games, and many of the kids were going to spirit events and meets for the first time since late October. Last week's district soccer final was three-quarters capacity, so Coach Beiste had decided to take advantage by scheduling a spring football game against Thurston High School on Titan turf. It was actually nicer to go to games now, anyway. It wasn't so cold, and you could wear shorts and t-shirts and not feel so buttoned up, and the smell of the fresh-cut grass was at its most heady, with its hints of summer and freedom. You just had to bring bug spray to the games, instead of a blanket. 

Artie sneezed twice as Tina wheeled him out towards the field during football practice. He hadn't abandoned his sweater vests yet, because he remembered when he was the one who couldn't move in the dark. With a critical filmmaker's eye, he pursed his lips and made a frame between his thumbs and forefingers at the field as they moved slowly towards Coach's benches. Rising above and behind them were the steel bleachers, and the fence, on the other side of the red, dusty track; and there were a few small groups just hanging out, either sitting on the bleachers or on the other side of the fence, happy to just enjoy the view. Their laughing and chattering mingled with shouts from the practicing players, Coach's whistle, and the chants of the Cheerios far away on the other side of the field. 

"Is this for your movie, Artie?" Tina asked, settling herself next to him and crossing her legs; she had just stopped wearing tights under her mod colorblocked dresses, just to feel the mild, warm breeze on her skin. She felt tired. She hadn't slept well lately. "You said you'd put me and Blaine in it. Zombies take over McKinley."

"You can't push the artistic _process_ , Tina. My muse is a fickle creature. She comes and goes and I am but a victim of her whims." He picked up his phone and looked down to fiddle with the touch screen. "This is for a documentary. I want the world to know what it's really like at a school after _it_ happens." 

Tina knew why Artie couldn't be more specific about "it" because he hated referring to his limitations. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to make him talk. Looking over him, she put a hand over the camera in his lap.

"You made videos while it happened, but - "

Artie interrupted her. "You mean, will I talk about how ashamed I was that I had to be helped onto the floor?" His voice rose. He was still angry. "How I thought I might have killed everyone because it meant an extra second being visible through the window and they'd see Blaine moving me and realize we were all in here, all vulnerable, like sitting ducks? No." The syllable exploded. "The less time spent on that, the better. The world doesn't need those director's notes."

Tina sighed. "I know, Artie. I know." She squeezed his hand, once, as Artie steeled himself to keep his self-fury out of his voice. "No... I want to focus on how we're trying to put ourselves back together. And I never want to forget both what happened during and what happened after." 

"Did you catch the security guards and metal detectors?" Tina said drily. They were still around. They were slowly fading into the background, to become like furniture. 

Artie nodded. "Of course." With an audible click, he leaned back and panned out, capturing Blaine and the Cheerios and the varsity football team performing monkey roll drills while Coach yelled at them. Sam really didn't have to go - he's graduating this year - and he could have just worked out by himself in the weight room. But he was down on the ground with the rest of them this afternoon, rolling, and he's doing well. Dirt and grass streaked across his white Titans uniform and sweat trailed down the sides of his face. Sam wiped off the back of his neck with a towel and waved to Tina and Artie. _Nothing gets him down_ ;, Tina thought drearily, and pasted a smile on while she waved back to Sam. _I should ask him how he keeps it together_.

_Blaine's not doing so well._ He was obviously very tired. He stumbled with the lift, nearly tipping Kitty onto the bumpy ground. After she dusted herself off, she gave him a quick hug and pats on the back. _That was nice of her._

Tina turned back to Artie. "I didn't know you wanted to keep documenting us, _after_. Isn't it more important to remember the _during_? So that we won't forget just how it was, you know, _when_." 

Tina still couldn't get herself to put a noun in, instead of prepositions. 

The sun bounced off of Artie's glasses. "Of course it's important. It's just as important. I cut and edited those and gave everyone copies... remember? Because not everyone has Twitter or Tumblr. You got one too."

For Tina, watching those videos had been like when the Twin Towers collapsed on 9/11, and everyone at school had been so glued to the screens, watching. McKinley paled in comparison, so they weren't alike in scale, but Tina felt sure that the people trapped in the hallways and stairwells and elevators had said so many heartfelt and heartbroken things to each other before the end, since they weren't going to have another chance to. 

Because she'd been watching her friends - her family - say goodbye, watching Artie's video had been utterly devastating. Blaine's scary wordlessness. _What must he have been thinking that he couldn't say it aloud?_ And she had tried to get him to articulate more on that subject, on the phone, safely at home, after watching it, but he'd carefully sidestepped. Just that, "I was so scared for you, Tina. And I thought about my parents and Kurt and how much I love everyone." A fresh round of tears had meant another long talk, late into the night, talking about love, but she knew there were deeper undercurrents running through his words, things he wasn't talking about. _I know there's more you're not saying, Blaine._ Ryder saying goodbye to his father, how he learned so much from him. Jake saying goodbye to his mom and to Puck, and how strong he was trying to be for Marley, and how he was almost succeeding in pulling the brave-soldier act. How brave and resolute they all were, under the circumstances. 

She leaned her chin on her hands and elbows on her knees and stares out to the field. "It was so hard to watch, but I'm glad you did. I'm glad everyone got to say goodbye. I'm glad that we won't have to. But... do you think I lost my chance?" 

"Chance for what?" He starts up his video program on his phone with an audible click. 

"You know. My... my chance to talk to people. 'Cause... 'cause it's not enough to just feel, you know? We all know we care about each other, but... I guess that's what all of this has taught me, you know. If we're going to get back to being normal... we have to say it. And more than goodbye... we have to say everything we should have been saying all this time." 

He turned in his chair and trained the phone on her. "You can say it all now, if you want. I'll make sure everyone gets to hear what you want them to know. We won't be all right until we all... really talk." 

But she wasn't ready. She pushed Artie's phone away from her face. 

"Well then, let me start then, Miss Tina Cohen-Chang. Here, stand up behind me and look over my shoulder at the phone. I'll start, and you say whatever you feel comfortable with." He held the phone out at arm's length, to encompass both him and Tina in the shot. The shouts of the team drifted off into the distance. 

_Click._ "Tina. I wish more than anything else that you had been there with us. I'm glad you weren't because you wouldn't have seen us at our best." There was an affectionate softness in his voice. 

She let out a small sob. 

He focussed his blue eyes on the screen, because this is now very important, and his voice deepened for emphasis. 

"This is what I would have said to you if I ever got the chance again." 

Pause for dramatic effect. 

"I never got to say that I'm sorry I lost you. I neglected you when I should have been treating you like the princess you are. Gaming's fun. But it's not more important than a living, breathing person. And you're a beautiful person." 

The pause, this time, is momentous and regretful and distant. 

"You've moved on, and I've moved on. But I'll never forget you, Miss Tina Cohen-Chang. I'm so glad that we're good friends, and you're my oldest friend. But you - you were my first love." 

Artie's voice trailed off into the grassy breeze. Tina couldn't find it in herself just then to reply to the raw feeling in his voice, so they stayed silent for a long time. When she found the voice to speak again, her voice was hoarse and quavery, and she coughed - or maybe that was the field dust. 

"Thank you, Artie. That's... that's beautiful. And I'm so glad that you're still my friend, after everything that's gone on." 

She felt badly. For all the feelings she had for Artie then - way back then - for her part, that was a door that had shut a long time ago. She put her arms around his neck from behind and leaned in to give him a tiny kiss on the tip of his ear. 

"You can do better than that, Tina." Artie wasn't fooled by the pretense. 

But too much water had flowed under that bridge. "I think we should go in. Practice is almost over and I'll take you home." 

With a lingering glance, Artie shut off his camera, and it lay on his lap, useless, as she rolled him off the field. 

But she did get it. She knew that there were volumes of things she had yet to share with anyone, and it was hard to balance them on her shoulders for fear of letting them fall and ruin - ruin everything. If they roll on and knock over something or someone, she wasn't sure she could deal with the fallout. She was afraid. As they wheeled away, behind them, Sam lost his concentration and knocked into the kid he was rolling against, and Blaine put his face in his hands to rest for a minute while the Cheerios sashayed away from the field for their showers. 

He didn't say anything else to her, except to press her hand after his mother came out of their house to help take Artie out of her car. Except this: "You can do this. You can." 

II  
Coach Sylvester's office was empty. The trophies and pennants and flyers had made it feel so small and cramped, so Sue had been... loud, to make herself be heard. And she had made herself heard, in so many ways. Sue's megaphone stood upright in the corner. The bookshelves echoed with ghosts as the late afternoon light streamed in through the window. 

Kitty and Becky each leaned against a doorjamb and Blaine stood behind them, one hand on the strap of his bag. _I'm so tired_ , Blaine thought, _but I've made it. Today._ "Where do you think she is? Do you think she's okay?" 

"Coach Sylvester?" Kitty shook her head. "You know she's okay. She'll get back up on top." 

Blaine said, "Did you get a chance to talk to her, you know... before Principal Figgins made her resign?" 

Kitty sighed regretfully. "No... no, I didn't. Just a video. She told me to keep you and the Cheerios in line. And she wanted me to know that just because she's gone doesn't mean we can use that as an excuse not to win Nationals." 

She didn't say what Sue said at the end of it. _Thank you, Kitty, for taking care of my Robin._

"I was so angry at her," Blaine said thoughtfully. "I was so angry, but I had good reason. She cemented my hair. She sent up that... that awful plane. My parents didn't let up for _days_ about our credit scores. And she's given Glee such a hard time. She was mean. She was awful. But she's gone. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss her." 

"What would you say to Coach Sue?" Becky looked up at Blaine. It's a simple and straightforward question, and in this case, Blaine had nothing but a simple answer. He spoke slowly, licking his lips nervously and glancing over at the empty leather chair. "I didn't realize until now what she did for us. She actually helped us stick together. Because we had to stay united to keep her off our backs. She... she's part of the reason why we won Nationals last year. She's part of the reason why Glee is so great." 

Kitty nodded, but she said nothing, except to put an arm around Blaine's waist. If they blinked, or imagined it, they could see Sue's figure in the chair. 

So it was up to Becky to make the final grand gesture, and she did. Becky ran, headlong, limbs flying, and threw her arms around the side of Sue's chair. She put her face into the leather and said it, over and over, "I love you, Coach. I love you. Thank you. Thank you." 

Kitty and Blaine watched her, their faces closed. In the presence of so much grief, it was better to say nothing. 

III  
The security guards kept patrolling, but kids still lingered in the hallways to talk, more than they used to. The topic of "say what you need to say" was clear on everyone's mind, not just Tina's. But Tina thought she would get something comparatively easy out of the way first. 

On the Monday morning after she'd talked to Artie, before class, she held her favorite binder across her chest and stepped resolutely out toward Marley's locker. Her head was hidden behind its open door, so she waited until the other girl had closed it. _Bang._ Both girls flinched. 

"Oh. Oh! Tina! You startled me! How are you?" Marley gave her a warm hug and rubbed her back. "Thanks for those history notes. Mr. Schue doesn't give us much handouts, and he talks so fast, so it's hard to catch everything he says. You practically have to have a tape recorder." 

"No problem. I got you, you know that. Listen..." Tina lowered her voice just a little, "I just... I just wanted to tell you something, really quick." 

Marley leaned herself against the lockers. The bell was about to ring, but she didn't seem worried about it. Tina leaned in next to her and gave her a tentative, sidelong glance. 

"Look, I.. I just feel terrible that I told you that you weren't Rachel Berry. You're an incredible singer. When you sing, you remind me of Norah Jones. I can really imagine you singing, one day, and when my kids want to know who that voice is on the radio, I'll be so proud to say that it's my friend, Marley Rose." 

"Re - really?" And Marley broke out into a big smile, with teeth. She looked like a flower opening, the way her whole face opened up to the light. 

Tina glumly looked down at her shoes. "Yeah. Actually, I... I think you're a better singer than me." 

Marley made an incoherent noise and put her arm about the smaller girl's shoulders. 

"And I'm sorry that... that I was so mad after Sectionals." It was all coming out in a rush. "I was so... so jealous of you that I blamed you instead of helping you get well. It was my solo. I was so mad because I thought you ruined it for me. Rachel told me that the Glee club was going to be mine. I was going to be the new Rachel. And then Blaine won the Call Me Maybe competition and then you came along and now I was singing backup for _you_. I'm so _ashamed_. And I've _said_ things to you and been snarky and - " 

"Tina, look, I..." and Marley retracted her arm, stood in front of her, and held Tina's shoulder. "Look at me. Look at me. It's okay. It's okay." 

Tina snuffled a little and dropped her binder from her chest. It fell to the floor with a slap, but both girls didn't notice. 

"Look... I didn't mean to come along and steal your thunder. I never wanted it to be that way." She snuffled too. "I looked up to you. I still do. You're a national champion. You sing like a dream, Tina. You're by far a better dancer than me. And you're so talented at sewing. If I could sew, my mom wouldn't have to do it and she'd have more time for herself and rest when we're at home. I feel so bad because I should be the one doing it for her. And I felt so bad after you sang to Blaine before Sadie Hawkins, because it was so beautiful, and he can't ever be with you in that way, and you _deserve_ someone, Tina, you deserve someone who can really love you." 

Tina's back went up, just a little. "Blaine loves me, it's just... it's just not that kind of love. It really isn't. I don't know how to explain it." 

Marley slowly nodded. "I know. Sam gives you two the side-eye when you hold hands, but no, I know." That wasn't her business; she decided to change the subject. "Look, Tina, here's what we'll do. Maybe we can all push for you to sing a solo at Regionals, a real one. You deserve it. It's _not_ pity" - because Tina was now the one giving her the side-eye - "it's long overdue. We'll do it. And I promise not to fall on stage this time." 

They both laughed during the bell, and it felt heavy with relief. That wasn't so bad. _Maybe Artie's right, maybe I can do this._

IV  
That night, Tina stared at her phone. 

_I can do this._

She dialed a familiar phone number and waited through the ring tone. She'd steeled herself with a few choice songs. She'd even written out an outline of what she was going to say, but after the words were all pinned down to the paper, they somehow shrank into insignificance. As if now, they didn't count so much, when it was really that they counted more than ever. 

"He - hello?"

"Hey, Mike. It's me." 

There was a pause - an awkward one. Tina could hear him sinking into a chair, in his apartment, somewhere in Chicago. They were two pins on the same map, connected by a thin red line of a road; feeling together, but still very far away. "Hey, Tina. Listen - are you all right? I know we talked right after the shooting, but I was just so glad you were okay that we didn't have a chance to really - " 

"Say what we need to say?" she asked. "Besides being so glad every day that we're still here?" 

"Yeah." There was a little laugh. "Say what we need to say. So... your turn. Tell me. I need to tell you something, too." 

"Do you have time to talk? This might take a while." Tina mentally checked herself, because she still sounded nervous. 

"Yeah, I'm good. I've got all the time in the world for you. I talked to Blaine, and Sam, and you, but no one wanted to really say anything. Twitter isn't enough. Blaine and Sam just wanted me to know they were okay and then we all said that we'd be friends forever and that we'll always keep in touch. And we will. But you and I haven't talked." 

_Here we go._

Tina was still nervous, so she decided to just blurt it out. "Mike, I just feel so guilty and stupid for admitting this. I... I got a crush on Blaine. It's over - it's over - but I thought you should have heard this from me first." 

_Secret number one._

Mike didn't sound surprised. "I know. Sam told me. I guess Blaine didn't want to embarrass you, so he's said nothing about it." 

"I just missed you, Mike. You were so busy with school and I was busy with school and we didn't talk that often. I thought you forgot about me." 

She could hear Mike's smile through the phone. "How could I do that? You're unforgettable." 

"So you're... you're not mad?" 

There was another pause. "No, I'm not mad. I know what it was, because I know you, Tina. You're so passionate and headstrong about everything. I know that whatever you do, you fall right into it and you don't look. You and Blaine spend so much time together, and he's a great guy. Why wouldn't you? I should have seen it coming. Half the girls in McKinley are the same way. And... you missed me." 

"Please - please tell me you're okay. It doesn't mean I haven't stopped caring for you. I never did. I just needed somewhere to put my love because you weren't here." 

Mike suppressed the little demon of jealousy that had popped up, rumbling, in his chest. "Yes. It's okay." 

"I can't believe that I was acting so stupid. I took advantage of him. I made Mom's chicken soup and he fell asleep on his bed and I just... I just had to help him, because he was sick, and I thought I loved him so much. I vapo-raped him, Mike. It was _assault_. And he's been assaulted before, which makes it even worse." 

"Tina, Tina. If he's really forgiven you for it, and nobody was hurt, then there's nothing to forgive between us. It's definitely not cool that you did that. We all know that. He knows that. But he's forgiven you. You have to admit, though... can we, now? The fact that _you_ did that? That's kind of funny." 

They laughed. That kind of was. 

_Secret number two._ "So... yeah, Blaine and I are really good friends now. Really good friends. I ran into the building after, like the second after - I had to beg and beg until the all-clear and Figgins had to walk me to the choir room so I could get back in - and I hugged him and Sam and everyone. And since then, we've said things. Mike... we say "I love you" all the time to each other. We hold hands. I don't want you to think he's replaced you because he hasn't. It's just a different kind of love." 

Mike didn't pause this time. "I know that, too. I'd never think that he was. You and I - we have so much history. You and Blaine have some things in common, but you and I have more." He had to say that, because he suddenly felt the urge to hop on a plane to Lima, but he had to stop himself because Tina was still talking, talking and talking as if she'd never stop. 

"We talked after Grease and then we danced together at Mr. Schue's wedding, well, sort-of wedding, but I didn't catch you because you had to go back to Chicago right away. But that's what I wanted to tell you. We were supposed to talk more about getting back together." _Secret number three._ "And... and I think we should, Mike. There's a silence in the choir room because you're not there and it breaks my heart. We can make it work. Lots of people go long-distance. My parents did, for a while, when he was in New York and she was here. I miss you. I love you. You believe in me when no one else will and it gives me wings. And if we can make the time for each other - we can do this."

The pause is longer.

"Tina. Listen. Listen."

Tina was standing on the edge of a precipice and this time, not like the last time she said this to someone, she _really_ was going to die. _Now that she'd said what she needed to say, what was he going to say to her back?_

"No one will ever replace you, with me. You helped me so much with my singing, with West Side Story. I loved dancing with you. When we danced, everyone had to notice. It was _us_ dancing. You practically got me into college because I didn't have the courage to apply by myself to dance schools. You went and talked to my father. I'd never done anything so brave." 

She hovered on the edge of his breath. 

"You're amazing. And you'll have this special, special place in my heart that no one else will ever live in. I swear to you that you'll always be there. That's.. that's what I've always needed to say to you, because it's so important and you're so important to me. But... but I.. I can't do that, Tina. What you're asking. I can't get back together. With you." 

Instead of falling into the abyss, she sat down on its edge, hard. 

"What's her name?" The words fell, like pebbles. 

Mike spoke carefully. "Her name's Amanda. I don't know where it's going. We're just hanging out, really. She's in a few of my classes at the Joffrey. But it's more than just casual friends. We're dating. She... she reminds me a little of you. She does this thing when she dances, and it reminds me. Of you." 

_Dating._

_Dating._

They managed to make it through the rest of the phone call, and like with Blaine, Tina talked, long, long, into the night. Near the dawn, when its light was about to steal into her room, she said goodbye, and carefully hung up. 

_Artie never said that this could happen after you say it. He should have told me. But - but at least I got to tell him what I felt. That's better than nothing. But - Mike. Mike. Why? Why, when I know she's not really the one you want?_

It was only a few hours' worth. And despite the bad news - despite her heart's disappointment - Tina slept. She slept for the first time in days. 


	5. This Is Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, when you say what you need to say, there are consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blaine has Sadie Hawkins related nightmares in this chapter, but they're not the focus.

I  
Sam had known it was going to be a tough day the minute his English teacher had announced a Beowulf pop quiz, but all the pop quizzes in the world paled in comparison to the last ten minutes of the late April afternoon. He pressed end on his phone. As he rubbed his forehead in thought, the front door unlocked and Carole and Burt hustled in, carrying last-minute groceries, mid-conversation, and home on a visit from Washington. 

” - and I said to him, you’re just going to have to get a new engine, since the wiring’s all shot. Some things just can’t be fixed, and I told the guy, and he got mad - “

The front door slammed behind them and Sam jumped. 

“Oh, hey, honey - ” and Carole gave him a quick, one-armed awkward hug. Sam made an effort to smile, but it didn’t reach his tired eyes. Burt alertly peered at him from under his worn Hummel’s Tire and Lube cap and rumpled jumpsuit. Just because he was home for a visit didn’t mean that he couldn’t help out in his own shop to help out, for Pete’s sake. She put her full paper bag on the counter, where it promptly fell over, and an orange stumbled merrily over its lip and harmlessly onto the floor. ”Could you get that?”

“Sure, Carole.” As Sam grabbed the orange off the floor, Burt said, carefully, “You all right, kid? Everything okay with your folks?”

“Nah, don’t worry. I talked to them a few days ago again. They’re fine. They’re worried about me, but they’re fine. You and Carole are great, but - ” Sam put the fruit back on the counter and rolled it back and forth, absently, over the pad of his finger, eyes evasive and careful. His lips pressed together and he looked up through and between his blonde hair, now well overdue for a trim. 

“Oh, honey, we’d never think we would replace your parents. You should tell them to come over for a visit. We’d love to meet Stacy and Stevie too. We could have a barbecue now that the weather is finally getting nice - or they can come up for the Dragons-Titans spring game. Or you could go see them for a weekend. When you’re - up to it.” Burt nudged her in the side, and Carole hurriedly added, “No, no, we’re not trying to get rid of you! We love having you!” She began to unpack and put away groceries with military precision, a no-nonsense, tightly scheduled set of gestures, counter to fridge and cupboard and freezer. Sam blinked rapidly to brush away sudden tears. He imagined his mother doing the same back home in Kentucky, with the kids tagging along at her heels. It hadn’t been that long ago now that he’d thought he’d never see his family or Brittany ever again. He’d really have to go visit soon. _After this, though. After this._

“When I’m up to it?” 

Burt crossed his arms and Sam quailed a little under his searching gaze, which was eerily reminiscent of Kurt’s. Both pairs of eyes said: Don’t hide. Carole gave him a half-smile over her shoulder while wielding a colander. She briskly dropped bell peppers into it. The faucet stuck, and the sudden loud rush of water bounced off the surface of Sam’s thought, made it disturb the undercurrents below. ”Don’t forget, we’ve raised two boys ourselves. We know when you’re covering for something. Or someone.”

There had been far too many tense and uncomfortable silences during the past days and Sam suddenly found himself very, very tired of keeping secrets or mentally poking at secrets that wouldn’t budge. 

“What do you do when… when you know something, or you think you know something, and you want to talk to the person, but you’re afraid of hurting them? Or their feelings?”

Carole blinked while the microwave popcorn boxes found their way to a shelf. ”You’ve got someone specific in mind.” 

Burt said, “Anything in there ‘bout us that you want us to know about, Sam? About you? Kurt or Finn?”

Sam shook his blonde head. ”Nah, it’s about someone else. Other someones.”

Carole said softly, compassionately: ”It might not be Sam or Kurt or Finn, but that doesn’t make it less important, Burt. Are people’s hearts at risk?”

He said, slowly, “I didn’t think of it like that. Is that what I should do? Think about their… hearts?”

“My mother taught me that. She said the heart is the seat of happiness. If you want to help your friends to be happy, soothe their hearts. It’s what I had to do when I tried to confront Finn’s father about his drug use, the first time - the first couple of times. It wasn’t just his body that was hurting… it was his heart, too. He was hurting himself most of all.”

“What happened?”

She sighed. ”It… it didn’t work. He tried rehab, but in the end, he let the drugs take him. But I had to try. I had to try for Finn and myself, because I would hate myself if I didn’t, and because Finn would have lost his father even more than he did. And if it had worked out, our lives would have been different. Not less happy, perhaps, just different.” As Burt slid over and put his arms around his wife’s shoulders, Carole, continued, sorrowfully, “The truth shouldn’t be avoided. You don’t know who you’re going to save, and even if you don’t save them, it can still help them - even if they don’t think it does when they hear it.”

Sam picked up the orange and began peeling it. He carefully sectioned it out, fanning them out on the counter like the rays of the sun, or the petals from the daisy that he’d given Brittany that afternoon. ”It sounds like… something I should do. I just don’t know how to start that conversation.”

“What’s that saying… you start at the beginning and then get to the end? Or just out with it. As long as you’re really concerned for them, they’ll listen. Or try to. Someone with as good a heart as yours will find a way to reach them.” 

“And what if they don’t listen? Or worse - you fight?” A little pinprick of fear pierced Sam somewhere in the region of his chest. Not for himself, really. The more he grew to know some of the most important people in his life, the more Sam had come to realize how fragile they could be. He finally understood, now, that even though he had had a tough life - he’d moved many times, he’d been near destitution, he’d struggled with school - but he was incredibly fortunate, too. _I have been lucky._ You could have all the worldly resources at your fingertips and still feel less than whole. You could shine with your own light and still be dismissed as lightweight or crazy. You could hide your own light, and your gift, under the cover of whatever insecurity was already dogging your footsteps, and smother in it. _I’ve been tested, too. But I already know I won’t break. What do you do when you know they’re breaking?_

“Then you fight,” Burt said. ”Fighting’s not always a bad thing. It doesn’t - ” and here, Burt echoed Sam’s own thoughts - “it doesn’t crush them. You’re doing it because you care. Sometimes the truth comes out best when everyone’s angry. It clears the air. Either you fall apart, or you come out stronger. We fight - ” Carole looked at Burt ruefully - “but we talk through it. We come up with - solutions. No, they don’t always work. But it matters that you tried to work through it.”

“I just don’t really get this _emotion_ stuff, ” Sam burst out in frustration, squeezing the orange like his stress ball at school. His muscles tensed up, and he wished he had a field to run on or a set of weights to lift. ”You have to be so careful. It’s not like art. Art, I get. You put things together and they fit together or you rearrange them so they look nicer than they were.”

“I think you do know what you need to do,” Carole said wisely. 

As Burt and Carole patted him on the back, Sam thought wryly that nobody in the history of the world had ever had to deal with hearts as dark and deep as the problems he was going to try to solve. He was, however, resolved to try with whatever gifts God had apparently decided to give him, because these problems - these hearts - were worth trying to heal over. And, after a home-cooked dinner, while he demolished the sections of his orange, Sam came up with something like a plan. 

He remembered for a long time what Carole said to him later: ”Sometimes you have to hurt to make art. And you don’t make art by avoiding pain.” 

II  
Some nights were okay, and he would merely stay almost awake, but asleep enough that random words floated through his consciousness as a prelude to falling asleep; things like Student Council business, and Kurt, and Cooper, and dance steps for Glee.

On some nights he would relive the afternoon of the shooting. The upper part of his back would be against the grand piano and he’d have his legs tucked up against his body, tight. His head would be protected by his elbows and he’d stay there, wordless, as the rest of the Glee kids left, one by one; and even though Blaine would hear “all-clear” several times through the choir room and in the dimly lit hallways, he always found himself completely paralyzed. Even Sam would get up and leave eventually, and always with a sorrowful look on his face, and even though his eyes and Sam’s eyes would stay locked for a short while, eventually, Sam would have to look away so he could walk Brittany safely out. 

On some nights he would still be in the choir room during the afternoon of the shooting, except that the shooter was looking specifically for him. In these dreams, the Glee club kids would stay, and form a barrier about him, and the shooter was never able to penetrate that fleshly shield despite all the bullets; just a ring of determined stony kids about him to protect him from the world. 

On some nights the shooter would actually come in, heavy boots tramping against the floor, always masked; and he? she? it? would actually fire around him from above him and hit the piano, but cruelly, cruelly, never hit him. Keys would clink and smash as their strings frayed. Eventually the piano legs would crack and it would collapse to the ground and somehow, Blaine stayed unhurt, just mired in a paroxysm of fear. 

It was on these nights that he would actually scream himself awake, and his mother and father would come running in from across the hall, where they’d moved into Cooper’s old room temporarily just for nights such as these. They would hold him tightly and it was only then that he would finally stop, stop, stop, stop shaking and realize that it was not real and that it was over.

Frantic, his parents suggested therapy to get his latent aggression and fear out. And while Blaine did work out more often by way of Cheerios practice, he refused to see the talking heads. He did what he always did: he tried to keep himself busy and responsible and motivated. He was never, ever late to anything. He kept up a near-perfect GPA and retained the adoration of all of his teachers. He kept Sam and Tina and Sugar on track during Student Council meetings. He kept the Cheerios organized while letting Kitty and Becky handle most of the choreography and dance routines; that responsibility, he saved for Glee. 

And if staying focussed and awake meant extra shots in his morning coffee, then that was how it was going to be, and if it meant holding Tina’s hand occasionally to feel safe and secure especially in the hallway where the choir room was located, that that was how it was going to be, too. And saying “I love you” every now and then didn’t do any harm, especially considering the circumstances. Especially now, when something had happened between her and Mike, and she needed reassurance more than ever even if she wouldn’t get into specifics. And so did he, because he didn’t want to get into specifics either. 

And that’s what he said when Sam came to talk to him about Tina one day after Glee practice. Sam had carefully made sure to close all the doors to the hallway before he stumbled on Blaine in a very rare moment of alone time. He’d been staring at the piano in reverie, stuck in place. He was so tired. 

“Dude,” Sam had said patiently, speaking as if to a small child. ”I know you and Tina are great friends and I’m not getting in the way of that. But you just don’t know girls. They get ideas in their head when you show them you like them, even if it’s not in that way.”

“She knows I’m gay, Sam. She knows we’re just friends. What’s a little hand holding just so that she feels safer? She thought we were all dying or dead, remember?”

Sam’s voice raised a little. ”I’m just saying you need to think about this. She’s really emotional and with everything that’s happened, it’s not right to even give her any hope.”  


“And you don’t understand what she needs,” Blaine flared. ”You teased her about the vaporub, remember? She’s been humiliated enough in this room. You don’t even know her that well.”

“I _have_ stopped bugging her about it. But you don’t even know half of why she’s clinging on to you, do you?” His stress rose in his voice, but he kept on, _steady, steady, boy_ \- ”Sure, she wasn’t with us. She was upset. She’s still upset. I didn’t say stop being nice to her or stop supporting her even when she’s moody - “

“She’s not moody, she’s going through reaction, and how can you be so - so unsympathetic? You were there with us and you’re apparently all - all recovered and she wasn’t even here and she’s not - “

“I’m not unsympathetic. I am saying that you’re making things complicated for her even if you don’t think you are.”

”Why?”

“Because Mike’s dating someone else. That’s why.”

The pit dropped out of Blaine’s stomach. ”What? Mike - Mike didn’t tell me - “

“He called me because he didn’t feel comfortable talking to you. As a matter of fact, I had to talk him out of taking the first flight he could out of Chicago because the first thing he wanted to do when he got here was to kick _your_ ass.”

Blaine stumbled backward and dropped into a chair. 

“I can’t believe this. Why would he want to do that? He - he knows - “

Sam sighed. ”You know this has nothing to do with you, really. Right? Listen.”

Blaine looked up at Sam from his chair, mutely. 

“First. Breathe. Breathe. Big breath in, then let it out in little puffs. Like this.”

Sam had a giant inhale of air, took a giant breath, then let it out in small puffs. ”Like Aeolus in Fables. Breathe.”

Blaine imitated him dutifully.

He _di_ feel better. Sam smiled reassuringly. 

“Okay. Now look.” Sam found a seat next to Blaine and turned halfway in his chair. ”Mike is too used to being the only guy in Tina’s life. He broke up with her because of the distance, but he didn’t say goodbye. Any guy who took his place in her life would be the same in Mike’s eyes, even if it is you.”

“But I was okay when Kurt started dating that - that guy in New York.”

“No, no, you weren’t. Everyone at Mr. Schue’s wedding figured that out the second you laid eyes on Kurt. And didn’t you and Kurt say that you were never going to say goodbye to each other either?”

Blaine had no answer for that.

Sam ploughed on. ”I’m not saying don’t be friends with her. Or stop loving her as a friend. It’s just - just that it’s not always about you, know what I mean? And now Mike’s got this other girl in his life, she’s - she’s going to have to stand on her own two feet. On her own. And you holding hands with her doesn’t… doesn’t help her feel that. She’s vulnerable, Blaine.”

Blaine’s attractive half-smile grew rueful. ”You’re so much smarter at people than you realize, Sam. Any college would be lucky to have you. Look - come with me. Tina’s in the auditorium. I promised her I’d stay with her after - you know - “

Sam sighed. ”Well, okay, but don’t tell her I know all this stuff. I don’t want my secret ability to read people’s minds to scare anyone.”

_I wish I was as okay as Blaine thinks I am. Hey, I’m a pretty good actor._

III  
The McKinley auditorium was showered in light, but there was no one to play for Tina at the piano. She had to think and for Tina, that meant singing, too; but now, especially when she’d been feeling so cramped up and tense, she needed to dance. For days now, she’d been carrying around the clothes she wore when she danced with Mike for the first time in “Dream a Little Dream”, just for sentimentality’s sake. But it seemed apropos to wear them now, now that she was thinking really hard of how everything started.  
She put on her tap shoes and flipped her hair about her shoulders and began an alternating shuffle to warm up. She began to smile; she saw the vague faces of a crowd in a packed theater house somewhere in New York, dressed to kill hearts. Of course, she’d have to imagine Mike there, but it wasn’t hard, not when his hands had been on these clothes and his memory in her head. 

She flew across the stage. Her muscles had remembered the motions well. And her anger - her anger was dissipating, evaporating away into the little tendrils of heat clouding off of her skin as she danced. 

_I thought I’d be the new Rachel. I thought I could be with Mike and if I was with Mike it was okay that I wasn’t going to get solos or be featured. Because I could be Mike’s girlfriend and I wouldn’t have to fight for a place. Then Mike went away and I’m still not the new Rachel. I’m just left with me, alone._

She hated that Mr. Schue passed her over and that the Glee club kids passed her over time and time again and, well, it was all for the team, and ordinarily she was okay - more than okay with this. But old habits died hard. Hell, she’d been outside during the shooting, even. Even when they were in trouble, she was still outside, trying to look in. People in Glee were slowly getting back to their old ways, to the old habits that had grated on her nerves. Kitty snapping back at Marley. Ryder mooning over Katie in that half-whiny heartbroken way. Mr. Schue just being irritating and he’d been like that ever since he’d been left at the altar. People interrupting her and telling her to shut up. Only Blaine had touched her shoulder and looked sympathetic, but really, what could Blaine do? It was _her_ problem, wasn’t it?

Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard if she could find her place. Maybe then she wouldn’t be passed over. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard if she could figure out what the hell she was supposed to be doing. Be a performer, yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes. But not like Rachel Berry - or Marley Rose, or yes, Blaine Anderson. Whatever she had, whatever talent she had, wasn’t going to be like their talent. Whatever it was was going to have to stand on its own and demand to be noticed. 

Whatever it is, I’ll have to just… own it, and take it. And I just might have to be… alone. It’s going to have to be. I can’t make Rachel or Marley or Mike be my excuse not to figure out just what it is I need to do.

Her heels stopped their magic and Tina was suddenly faced with Sam and Blaine standing just in front of the stairs to the left of the stage. She stood there, suddenly awkward, feeling oddly ashamed - like her whole heart and soul had been on display and how was the world going to judge her?

“Tina. Oh… We’re interrupting,” Blaine said apologetically, “but - hey, I… Why are we here, Sam?”

Sam shot him a warning look. ”Blaine was worried, because he thought you were upset - “

Tina walked down the stairs to the left of the stage and threw her arms around them both. ”No, I’m not. This stage is so good for helping you figure things out.” 

“Well, let’s go home, then. Sam’s got his truck so we can load everything in the cab and not be crowded with bags all over the backseat.” Blaine made to take Tina’s bags, too, but she stopped him. ”Nah. I got this.”

IV  
Later that night, Blaine dreamed, and unlike the reverie of Tina’s dance, this dream was all too, too real.

It started out oddly, as an amorphous blob. It felt something like the night Blaine had steeled himself up for, when he was thirteen and scared, finally resolved (shakingly) to tell his parents that he was gay. He remembered how the front doors slammed and his dad had thrust him out onto the porch while he and his mother talked about this. And they’d talked - they’d talked for a good long time. But it had been agonizing. Other kids’ parents threw them out of the house for being gay. He didn’t want to leave his mother and father and Cooper. And what would he do, a thirteen-year-old boy, out on the streets? _How will I survive? Where will I go?_

It was the longest night of Blaine’s life. And they’d let him in, finally, and things had never been the same after that. It had patched over - sort of. His mother had hugged him and brushed her lips against his ear and whispered, “I love you.” His dad had said it, too, and had qualified it: ”Just - just be careful.” His dad was trying - he’d tried - he was there, but it had taken a few thousand dollars’ worth of parts for a ‘57 Chevy and a hell of a lot of painful talking about are you sure? and do you know how unsafe it can be? before he had gotten there. Worst of it had been the guilty shame of it - as if he was putting his family through some kind of painful ordeal, when it really was him figuring out who he was. And that shouldn’t have been shameful, but it had been for Blaine, because he’d measured himself up against Cooper and his father and others all his life and he had always found himself lacking. Except when he sang. Except when he played. Except when he was being responsible.

He’d had to own it, own being gay, and that was how he had survived.

There were other scars and these were ones that ached occasionally, but agonizingly enough. These were nights where he had the dreams where he screamed, but nothing came out of his mouth. The footsteps ran rapidly behind him and Charlie and he felt the three of them, above him, and then the heavy mass of three angry boys against them and around them, punching and shoving, with hard fists and booted feet. They bounced him between the three of them like a stuffed toy with its stuffing sticking out. His arms flailed helplessly against other strange arms and fists that punched him in the ribs and stomach, hard and deep enough for large, mottled purple and yellow bruises. There was a sickening, agonizing crunch as his arm was broken, then his ribs, and he heard Charlie cry out about his leg. There were blurs of blood in his eyes and on the sidewalk and sweat and terror and confusion. Why is this happening? How did we get here? There were yells as more people rushed to stand around him, jeering and catcalling and cheering on the assault. Each word even felt like a bullet. “Here, get this,” he heard someone say, a girl, and then the phone was on; someone was taking video of this. Vaguely, somewhere off to his right, he could hear Charlie, sobbing loudly as they surrounded him, too. Blaine hadn’t cried, except only in pain, because Blaine couldn’t bear this - not this hurt; and the video added humiliation to it, the sure swift feeling in the pit of his abused stomach that he was less than human; he was a circus spectacle; he was going to be entertainment on the Internet for strangers who didn’t care about anything but the fun they were getting out of his hurt. And make comments. And pretend inside that they were the ones beating him up. 

This was what being gay in a small town in Ohio was like and his fellow students were letting him know how things stood for guys like him and Charlie. 

It was 1:47 am by the light of his Batman alarm clock and Blaine was finally so tired of having nightmares that he called the one person he felt he needed to say all of this to.

“Blaine?” Sam whispered hoarsely. ”It’s late, dude. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I just needed to talk to someone.”

He could hear Sam scratching at his chin stubble. ”Sure. What’s eating at you?”

It just poured out, like stormy water over rocks, and once it was out Blaine found he couldn’t stop. Kurt had heard this story, of course, and Tina too. He didn’t mind telling it to Sam, either, except that he never had described all of it, and he knew Sam would never ask because it would cause him pain.

At 3:02 am, there was a silence over the other side of the phone. 

“You still there, Sam? Did you fall asleep?”

“No. I’m still here. Hey - I never wanted to ask you about it, because I knew it would be - it would cause you pain. I’m sorry I didn’t. I could have been more of a friend.”

“It’s okay, really, it’s okay. It’s just that - they give me nightmares, and I’ve been having them more often, after the shooting. The shooting triggered some memories.”

“I noticed.”

“You did?”

“It’s not hard to figure out, guy. No one gets that many espresso shots in coffee unless they’re trying to run away from something.”

“I didn’t run away,” Blaine said, faintly exasperated.

Sam really didn’t want to be having _the conversation_ now, at 3:04 am, but it looked like it was going to happen.

“Look. Did you ever go back to the therapist?”

“No, of course not. I can handle everything on my own. I’m over it.”

“And no, you are not. You can talk to Kurt and Tina and a therapist and even me all you want but it’s not really doing anything. You’re still not over it.”

“And just what do you expect me to do?” Blaine snapped. He was really tired. “I don’t want to be uncovering old wounds all the time by myself. I have my friends for that.”

“And isn’t that just what you’re doing over and over again every time you dream? Every time you talk to someone about it?” Sam was getting tired, too. Why couldn’t Blaine just get it? He loved him, just as much as he could his best friend in the whole wide world - but damn it, Blaine was _dense_ sometimes. He closed his eyes wearily. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to you, then. I had things I needed to say and I thought I’d say them to you. I thought you’d get it. I was wrong.” Blaine moved his face away from the phone and started reaching out blindly for his alarm clock: 3:06 am. He had to move away before he could start lashing out: _Why are we friends? Why are we friends when you don’t even want to listen to me?_

“Don’t hang up, Blaine. Don’t hang up. _God damn you, don’t shut me out. Don’t run away._ ”

It was the tone of Sam’s voice that caught him just as he was reaching to press “end” on his phone. 

He reached over. He thought better of it. He willed himself to breathe; just breathe; deep breath in, nine tiny puffs of breath out. He heard Sam soldier on.

“I do get it. I am saying that talking isn’t the answer. I’m saying that Dalton wasn’t the answer because it made you feel safe but you’re still not safe. I am saying that this is also going to hurt. But you’re not going to get better unless you do.”

“Which is?” 

“Confront them.”

“I…” Blaine’s voice got quiet and his anger flew out of him like the air out of a balloon.

“I said confront them. And I’ll help you. See… I’ve got a plan.”


	6. This Is The Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the calm before the storm, Tina, Sam, Blaine and Mike reaffirm their ties to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not condone (what amounts to) cyberstalking or violence.

I  
Chicago deep dish is - to anyone who's from Chicago - the only way to eat the finest conglomeration of bread, sticky white cheese, and sauce known to human civilization. Giordano's is one of the best places to indulge in a slice, pricey as it is, and as calorie-laden as it is. There was a location a few blocks from the Joffrey, and he hated to feel bloated on a school day, but Sundays were fair game to people-watch and destroy a Stuffed Special with his new-ish friends. And Mike has decided that deep dish just might be the only way to let it all hang out. 

Mike had liked New York _fine_ , and New York thin crust _fine_ , too. Just fine. To be honest, any city would look bigger than life than little Lima; so he was bound to be astonished and impressed by New York the first time he'd gone, with the Glee club, to Nationals that one year. He hadn't liked so much the little pockets of decay and human ugliness lingering in between the shops and people's smiles; how people could be so cruel to each other in New York, and how kind, too. It bore its scars, and not always gracefully, but when it did, it was beautiful. But Mike, at this point in his life, wasn't a person to enjoy extremes. Maybe, when he got older, and when he'd have to move to New York - as he imagined he would at some point, if not Los Angeles, for work - he would feel differently. But for now, Chicago was a world-class experience that seemed smoother, cleaner, friendlier, and just as sophisticated; no rough edges here. 

"Michael Robert Chang!" sing-songed a female voice behind him, and Mike looked up from his little table, pizza in hand. He tipped his gray fedora hat rakishly and gave her a broad smile, lighting up his face. Amanda was one of the nicest people he'd ever known. He stood up and gave her a warm hug. 

"I'm glad you're here. I think I just need a female perspective for my problem."

"Sure, of course. You know you can count on me!" Amanda smiled brightly and unceremoniously dropped her purse on the table, jiggling her glass. She was a bubbly blonde in a red flowery smocked top and skinny jeans and that coltish, lean look of a born dancer. And a dancer's eating habits, which Mike, for himself, couldn't completely submerge himself into just yet. " _Mike_. You should not be eating that! I can just feel the calories building up in my arteries just by looking at what's on your plate right now. For shame!" and she shook a manicured finger at him. 

"I ordered you a salad. But c'mon, it's Sunday. And I've been good for a good long while." He gestured to the other empty seat, where a tall glass of iced tea had been waiting for her, and tipped his gray fedora hat. 

"Don't have long to talk, darling. I've got a date in an hour, and you could use the salad to fight all that grease. You still look great though. Love the black vest. So let's get to it." She fell into the chair and sipped, her blue eyes fixed on Mike's brown, frankly concerned ones.

Mike groaned in response and put his greasy slice down. "I messed this up, 'Manda. I pushed her away."

"You know," Amanda said, "for a high school romance that you say over and over again is over, this one seems to be earth-shattering. You and I didn't work out and you know that's okay by me because we're better friends. But you'll never get over her if you don't date. Didn't she fall for someone anyway?"

"Well, yeah - "

" - and it's a crush. A high school crush, for God's sake. And he's gay, didn't you say? What's the problem exactly?" Amanda sounded a little exasperated; she'd heard all this before, just a few times, or maybe many times. 

Mike supposed it was just as it appeared to Amanda, simple and straightforward. A very simple story of a heterosexual girl who fell for her gay best friend, and what was the problem exactly? The problem was that it was Tina and it was her best friend. Her best friend that wasn't Mike. _I'm supposed to be her best friend, not Blaine. I'm supposed to be the one she comes to for help and support and a shoulder to cry on. And I went away and I let her replace me with Blaine._

He'd wanted to get on a plane the day after the shooting - or the night of - and he'd wanted to reach out and hug her so tight and he hadn't. He hadn't. He'd felt - he'd always felt - that Tina needed a push to stand on her own, or she'd never succeed. She'd pushed him, and look at where he was - so he'd decided to push her, because she was bound to be bigger and brighter than anyone in Glee - she just needed the incentive. So he'd let her go. One day - one day, when they didn't have this and distance between them, they'd reconnect and be better than ever. Asian Fusion, redux. Just not yet.

_Besides, I had classes. I had things to do trying to be me, too. I just didn't think she would take it this hard and fall for Blaine. I didn't think I would take it this hard. It's Blaine. He can't return her love the way I could. Or the way I should._

"Okay," Amanda said, frowning a little, "so you told her what? That you were dating someone?"

He sighed. "Yeah. She wanted me to... to get back together, and do the long-distance thing, and I told her I was seeing someone. And all the time she was talking, she was saying how she and her best friend hold hands and say 'I love you' and... I just, I just got upset, 'Manda. That's my job. That's my job. And he shouldn't be encouraging her, he shouldn't. What kind of male and female friends hold hands and dance and sing songs to each other and say 'I love you' to each other?"

"Sounds like that's all you did in your Glee club," Amanda said. She took another sip of her iced tea calmly, as if the truth was completely obvious and Mike should figure this out soon, goddamnit. 

And of course, her next words were right, too. "There's all different kinds of love, Michael Robert Chang. It's not black and white. He's the right shade for her as a best friend. I love you, too. But it's a different color than the forever-and-ever love you sang about in your Glee club. It's not less pretty, it's just different. And it's disrespectful to ask her to be less of a good friend to this guy just because you miss her. It's not all about you. Especially because of what happened there."

Her words cut like a knife, or a dash of icy water to the face, because the words - the thoughts - had been there buried deep inside his heart all this time. The heavy layers of denial lifted.

"I think she still loves you. She loves him, too. And it's okay, Mike, it's okay. It really is. It doesn't make her love you any less, it makes her love you more. If I know my soaps right, he's got someone he really loves, too."

He said, "And here I was, even lying to my friend about dating someone just so that she wouldn't find out I made it up. I just made it way too complicated and you make it simple. I mean - I do love you. And you love me. And she loves me, too. How are you so smart?" 

"It must be my good eating habits," Amanda quipped. She put her empty glass on the little iron table with a bang; Mike blinked at her, and the table wobbled. "You'd get all kinds of insight if you cut down on the carbs, darling. Gotta go."

She stood and gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. "Say hi to Lindsey for me."

"I will, Mikey. And hey, if you need to - you could always take a flight out and go see your friends at their competition. Who knows what will happen? You guys need a real conversation."

II  
Miles and miles away - on the other end of a thin red line that straggled between Chicago and Lima - Blaine and Tina were, oddly enough, also eating pizza; not anything like Chicago deep dish or New York thin crust, but passable. And they were not sitting on a sophisticated street corner, but in the very noisy Lima mall food court on the same Sunday afternoon. Their conversation was punctuated by tired parents pushing strollers and tweens talking way too loud in huge, Forever 21-clad gangs. _Quinn would hate that they're texting while walking._ The carousel was noisy too, and its potent combination of cheery insane round-and-round merry-go-round music and over-sugared, bouncy kids was like to drive Tina mad. 

"Isn't Becky going to get on you for eating too much pizza? She's tough," she said, irritably, because this conversation was currently not going well and the screaming kids weren't helping. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and smoothed over her black lacy gloves. _They fit like a second skin - I don't know why I haven't worn them earlier._

"Becky doesn't dictate all of my habits, Tina. Why are you changing the subject?" and with that, a little girl ran towards their table, shrieking her head off, as another kid chased her. Blaine lifted his dark brows and fussily brushed down the front of his neat orange sweater. He didn't flinch at the racket, for once. _He's still tired... but he feels better, somehow. Maybe this plan of Sam's might actually work. And if it's giving Blaine some comfort it might actually be worth all this effort._

"Because it's weird to be talking about Mike like this." Tina's voice quavered. "This feels so personal. How idiotic do I sound right now?"

Blaine gently pressed her. "But you need to talk. You haven't been able to talk to me about it and that's sort of telling, don't you think? I'm your best friend, Tina. You can talk to me."

"But you've been so exhausted and busy and I'd feel terrible to - to be a burden and - " Tina's lip quivered. "I've been feeling so much more... independent, and so I ought to be able to handle all of this on my own, but I just - "

Blaine shook his gelled head emphatically. "Don't feel bad that you need support. It's natural to break a little every now and then." 

His voice was strong and he reached out and grasped her hand warmly, but made sure to apply just enough pressure to be reassuring. No need to anger Mike any further than he already apparently was, because things just got complicated enough already with what Sam had outlined to him about - a confrontation? With them? With the kids who'd jumped him at the first Sadie Hawkins? 

Since the talk with Sam, he'd actually felt more reassured about the - that issue than he'd ever felt before. He'd gotten more sleep. He'd all but stopped having nightmares about the shooting. The feeling that there might be resolution was... soothing. It was calming. Even if it didn't end up working out. He didn't know yet what Sam was up to - they were going to talk about it later today - but he had wondered if he might have to fight them. (Irrationally, he'd thought - he couldn't fight them; it was illegal; he really didn't want to hurt anyone.) So he'd gone out a few times to the garage with his gloves and the bag and just punched his thoughts out. He imagined his bullies standing there passively with open arms and meek vulnerable faces begging to be hit and he hit and hit and hit and hit the bag until he was panting and exhausted and he'd found that he was angry - angry - angry. Enough that his hands hurt the next day - but he'd gone back to the bag and the gloves and it was therapy, after all. It was therapy.

And the fact that Sam would actually do this thing for him touched him to the point of tears. He thought back to their late-night phone conversation and how he'd almost hurt him. _I love that guy. Just as I love this girl._

She gulped down her diet soda. She nodded, tremulously, and hesitated - "He - He's seeing someone. I bared my heart to him, Blaine, because I realized how much I loved him and - no offense, Blaine, but it was more than I thought I loved you and - he said he wouldn't get back together because he's dating someone. I couldn't believe it. So I let him talk and talk and the whole time I couldn't think of anything but her. We've got so much history and we just go together and how can he be so blind?"

Blaine sighed. "You don't think I would understand that? For all I know, Kurt is still seeing whoever he is in New York. I thought we'd be back together after Mr. Schue's wedding, but we aren't. I'll wait for him - I'll wait for him as long as it takes. Forever, if I have to. Because he's my soulmate, Tina. It just gets painful to bear it while Kurt's figuring it out and I just feel like I'm killing time while he does."

He didn't mention, despite their new resolution of saying everything, the thought he'd been bouncing around in his head; a thought like a bouncing gold hula hoop, a promise he'd decided he wanted to make, and how scared he was of what the answer might be. This was not the time to talk about it to her.

Tina's eyes snapped back to his. "Exactly. Exactly. Oh, Blaine. Blaine. Why did I think you wouldn't get it. In my mind, I just sound crazy. To know someone else understands? It's wonderful. That's why I really do love you." She had a lovely smile. 

Maybe in another lifetime, when he wasn't - who he was, he could be more to her than her best friend in the whole world. That kind of love between them was never going to be. But it wasn't going to stop him from saying it to her now, Mike be damned. _Mike will just have to get over it. Tina deserves many loves in her life._ "I really do love you, Tina Cohen-Chang."

"Now if I could just figure out what to do with my life," Tina said, with annoyance. She put the soiled napkin on top of her paper plate and adjusted her black bracelets. "I just keep on going over it, over and over in my head all the time. I'm obviously not going to be Rachel Berry. I love to sing and be up on that stage, but I can't be her. I have to be me. And I need to be on my own two feet to do it, because I can't hide behind Mike. Who _am_ I?"

Blaine suddenly remembered something that might get to her more than all of his words - no matter how heartfelt or how charming - ever could. 

"I might be able to help with that. Here - " and Blaine rooted about in his back jeans pocket, "I took a picture of it on my phone. It's at school, but you can go get it later."

"Is there literally anything you can't do?" Tina smiled. 

"Nope. Of course not," and his hazel-green eyes lit up as he flashed her a melting grin. _That's the old Blaine smile._ "Come see." He scooted his chair over to hers and put an arm about her shoulders while he showed her the picture on his phone. He put his chin on her shoulder and looked at it with her. 

Tina held her breath and caught the front of her dress in both hands. Her mouth made an O shape. 

_It's me._ Tina rendered in macaroni, high up in the air during her "Dream a Little Dream" dance, hair flying. 

"You're an inspiration when you're being you. Not - not sad during Glee club, when people try to talk over you - but when you're dancing. I always wanted to tell you that. I saw it too. I'm glad that I have the chance to tell you. You need to be doing something like this. You're a beautiful singer - but don't ever deny the dancer in you."

Very few people ever get their road shown, clear and true through the forest, where little light filters through the leaves and it's dark and dense and depressing; Tina knew, just then, that she was going to be one of the lucky ones. "Thank you. Thank Sam for me." Those simple words didn't seem eloquent enough for the thankfulness she had. And all she had really had to do was to let down her barriers, dance it out, to let the light shine in.

"You should thank him yourself when we meet up with him."

"Do you think this plan, whatever it is, is a good idea?" she asked, as he stood to take their trays over to the garbage can. Some kids screeched and ran between them; Blaine and Tina jumped just a little, but this time the recoil wasn't as great. It was just kids goofing off. 

"He wouldn't say anything over the phone, so your guess is as good as mine. Hey - let's go. I promised him we'd be at the Hudson-Hummels' in an hour or so, and we need to pick up Artie first."

III  
Even though Sam had really wanted to contrive a devilishly intricate plot requiring grappling hooks, multiple prepaid cell phones, and planting inside agents behind enemy lines, the only plan he could come up with quickly and effectively was like him: straightforward and to the point. It was just as well, because his memory was shot, and so were his nails, bitten down to the quick. And he was the one now getting random thoughts making no sense and having no connection to anything he was actually doing. _I couldn't protect them during - during that. I was supposed to protect them and I had to leave it up to Mr. Schue and Coach. I couldn't protect her. It doesn't matter that it was Coach Sylvester. It could have been anyone. What if Brittany had actually died? How can I pull this off? What if I can't protect Blaine? What if he gets hit again?_ And getting such thoughts during spring football practice was one thing, but getting them during history class when he was explaining (or trying to explain) the political ramifications of the Great Depression was another. And then he'd fall into a restless sort of sleep; no nightmares like Blaine had, but no real rest, either. 

Making the macaroni picture for Tina had been helpful. Not just because he'd seen Tina's future in the blink of an eye, up there on stage - her dancing had a clean expressive beauty to it. From there, his mind wandered just like it was apt to nowadays. It wasn't showy like Brittany's style - if Sam could call Brittany's dancing style a flower, he'd say a gorgeous purple orchid, or the bright yellow daisy he'd given her at school some days ago - but it was just as flawless, it was her - maybe a pink rosebud just tipped with darker red. So he'd kept Tina's picture simple and clean and he hoped she'd like it because he'd seen her future and she ought to know what it was. But for him, as with all the art he did, making the picture for her had helped him focus - _keep it together, guy_ \- as he drew the picture, then laid down the bits of dried pasta and beans from his clandestine stash at school. 

Thank God Burt and Carole had gone back to D.C., mostly because they would think that he was really losing his mind. _Doing this plan as Sam might get me caught - but maybe I don't have to be Sam to do this._ And that's when the real linchpin of his plan took shape; he'd rooted around the house, swiped a bottle of Blaine's hair gel out of his locker, and played around with accents until he felt satisfied with the result. The name, though, the name, had to be simple enough that he would still respond to it when called. 

He went over to open the front door and yeah, he expected the gasp from Tina, and the hastily covered, surprised look on Blaine's face, but somehow he hadn't expected the astounded "Are you losing your _mind_ , man?" from Artie. 

Sam looked discomfited and straightened his shoulders, levelling them with a steady gaze. Out with the Australian accent he'd perfected: "What, you don't think it looks good?"

"It looks good, Sam, it's just... what is this?" from Tina, who was holding back what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Blaine frowned and shook his head very slightly at her.

"It's my disguise. Just hang on. This will all make sense, I promise."

He waited for everyone to get settled in the living room and seated - Blaine and Tina in separate chairs and Artie between them. Everyone was set up with popcorn and drinks. Turning on the big screen TV connected to his laptop, he started up: "Blonde Chameleon Mission!!!"

"He made a PowerPoint of his plan?" Tina stage-whispered in disbelief, a little affection creeping into it. She'd honestly never thought that she'd like Sam this much - between the macaroni picture and the choice of Comic Sans for his PowerPoint font and his - his love for Blaine. _I remember that first Valentine's Day at Breadstix and we were all watching Blaine sing with the Warblers. How did it come to be that we're all great friends? I'd never have imagined it either._

"Shhh!" Blaine elbowed Tina in the ribs. "Let him talk."

"Friends," Sam began solemnly, "we are at a crossroads. One of our own has archenemies. It is past time for a reckoning. I have come up with a plan. You see here, standing before you, Evan Evans, the alternate identity I will adopt for this mission."

He pressed the button on his clicker and on the slide appeared a self-picture of Sam as Evan Evans: slicked back hair and tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a tight shirt. He kept on clicking through the slides as he spoke. 

"Evan Evans will infiltrate the Thurston High School library, passing as a student." _Click_ with an adjustment of said glasses: these things were heavy on the bridge of his nose. "He will kidnap the yearbooks -" _click_ \- "- identify these archenemies, follow them around - " _click_ "- and elicit confessions from them." Click to a slide of Artie holding his camera. "Artie, you're here because you'll tape the confessions, and then, we'll go to the police with them."

"How will you know who they are? Blaine - Blaine, um... you don't remember their faces, do you?" Artie asked. 

A twinge of pain twisted Blaine's face, and he clenched and reclenched his fists. Tina grasped his arm. "No. I don't. I thought I'd never forget their voices, but even that... even that memory's faded." His voice cracked.

"Wait - " Artie snapped his fingers. "The statute of limitations for assault in Ohio is two years. The police won't be able to do anything. And you said the school didn't do anything, Blaine, so going to them isn't the answer, either."

All eyes swiveled to Artie, including Sam/Evan. "How did you know that?"

"Does it matter?" said Artie, frankly annoyed - _everyone should know I know everything_. "If you must know, I looked it up when Blaine got hurt the second time. The rock salt incident with Sebastian. And that fact just might make it into a scene I'm writing with a zombie lawyer in it, so at least it isn't wasted."

"Look," Tina said quietly, "the police won't be able to do anything - " and Blaine swallowed to alleviate the dryness in his mouth and the despair rising in his face, " - but we still need to go confront them. Get them to admit what they did."

"Why would they want to admit what they did?" Blaine said, in growing anguish. Panic was rising in his throat like bile. 

Sam/Evan made motions to Blaine: _breathe. Big breath in, little breaths out_. "Blaine. We'll just have to go and find out. But listen - I don't think you should be in this until we finally get to talk to them. And - " because Blaine had made a gesture like a cape wrapping around his shoulders - "no Nightbird for this one. You were already a target. I think Nightbird would endanger your safety."

The little breaths helped, but not completely: Blaine kept rattling on, his speed getting faster and faster and more incoherent and his pupils dilated with fear. "How will you know what they look like if I don't remember? What if they try to fight? _What if they bring their friends with them and what if it happens all over again?_ "

Sam/Evan sighed and took the glasses off of his nose. "We'll be prepared for anything. Trust me. We'll all come with you - me, Tina, Artie, Brittany if she wants to come - and we won't confront them all together. We'll make sure that we'll face them separately and in public places and in the daytime. You should take up boxing again just in case. And it was easier than I thought it would be to find out who they are. You didn't tell me there was video."

The room got very, very quiet and three pairs of eyes widened; there was horror there, the same Sam/Evan had imagined was reflected in his. When Blaine answered, it was in a hoarse, cracked whisper: "Video?"

Sam used his normal voice to respond and his tone was flat and unemotional because if he let any of his horror show, he would break, too, and he couldn't afford to do that now. "Yeah. I... I saw it. It's on YouTube. It was the first thing I thought of when you told me about the attack and I was right. Don't look for it, Blaine. Don't look."

He didn't mention that he'd thrown up afterwards and then he'd cried himself sick, so his face afterwards was red and puffy and streaked with snot. What was worst of all were the comments. They were callous and cruel and cheering them on. They were wishing they were there, not to help, but to make it worse, maybe even kill Blaine and his friend. But Sam had steeled himself, for Blaine, for Blaine, he kept on repeating to himself, to screencap their faces. It still made him sick to his stomach - that hate could be so brutal and - and unkind - and vicious. People should just treat each other as they would want to be treated. It's so simple. Why can't people do that?

Artie's face twisted in sympathy and he shot Sam/Evan a glance, knowing exactly what he'd been thinking. "You did do screencaps? I can clean them up for you."

Sam/Evan nodded gratefully. "Then, when we go through the yearbooks and identify their faces, we'll track them down. The Internet's great for that. And we won't talk to them until the end and - " Tina shot him a reproving glance - "no, I won't harass them online or stalk them. I've got class, unlike some assholes I'd love the pleasure of meeting. I'll stick to public information and keep my distance." He laced his fingers together and cracked the knuckles in anticipation. 

"I should help more than just tagging along at the end," Blaine steeled himself to say. 

"No, Blaine. You just - Just work out. Just in case something happens. Artie, you'll help me with the Internet stuff. Tina - you'll need to stay with Blaine until we go. And everyone stay calm. We'll get to the bottom of this, trust me. We'll meet up again and figure out a final plan of action." With a very final-sounding click, Sam/Evan shut off his PowerPoint and crossed his arms, looking grim and resolute and fierce and not at all like the tension of everything - the shooting, Blaine - was about to make him crack. _Being a good actor helps._

"Well - " Blaine rolled his orange sweater off of his chest and over his arms. He stood up and walked over behind Sam/Evan. "Evan just needs a little bit of something... here. Tie the sleeves together over your neck - so. There." Tina and Artie nodded like puppet heads on strings and made approving noises but couldn't make any words come out, because, well, _Evan_. 

Blaine patted Sam/Evan on the chest. "Thank you, Evan. You're an amazing friend. My best friend. And my hero." And he couldn't help himself - he had to throw his arms around him, and sigh as he settled his chin in the crook of Sam's neck. 

Sam/Evan's Australian accent came back. "You're my best friend, too, Blaine. Don't worry. We will see justice done." And he couldn't help himself either, and he had to hug it out, because Blaine really was an awesome hugger, and it was one hundred percent okay to love your best friend. And Artie's fistbump was great, too. And Tina's hug at the end of the night was very nice too, and so was her whisper in his ear: "Thank you."


	7. Forgive This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine starts to come to terms with the personal demons let loose by the shooting incident at McKinley. Kurt comes to a realization. Meanwhile, Sam begins to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: swearing, homophobic slurs, mentions of Karofsky's suicide attempt and bullying of Kurt and a reference to Blaine's flashback nightmares about the first Sadie Hawkins. Angst really is not the focus. I do not condone or encourage homophobia or violence. 
> 
> This chapter has implied!Klaine. The Klaine parts can be skipped if it’s not to your taste.
> 
> I assumed that Blaine's attackers were also freshmen (as Glee never says how old they are) to make this work. 
> 
> S/N: I highly recommend listening to the Imagine Dragons song "Demons" while reading this chapter. "Demons" is easily found on Spotify.

I  
An unseasonable heat wave hit Lima in the days leading up to the spring football game. 

The sun got hot and fuzzy and dense, and it would beat down through a thin vapor of humidity. It felt slightly slick underneath your clothes and lay limply on your skin. People fanned themselves with their hands to circulate a breeze around their sweat-slicked brows. The trees were still dark and heavy with leaves, and worst of all, the leaves were still. Waiting.

This kind of weather is when tempers flare, and tempers were flaring up all over the place.

 

II  
The persistent, annoying ringtone – chosen expressly because it was annoying - woke restless Sam up from a disturbed, dreamless after-school nap. The voice on the other end of the line didn’t hold back, either. When he heard who it was, he fell back among his messy, stained bed sheets, and pulled at his unwashed hair. This was going to be harsh. _Maybe I deserve it. I haven’t been thinking rational lately._

“Sam. Sam. What are you thinking? What are you thinking? Are you drinking crazy juice, Sam Evans? This is a stupid idea and it’s going to get Blaine hurt!”

Sam winced because Kurt’s syllables were short and sharp and nasty, meant to pierce through whatever armor Sam had left. It was working. Kurt was breathless with fury and fear and the words ran together at the end frantically, rising up in pitch.

“Why would you – you even think that this is a good idea? Stupid homophobes like that can’t be reasoned with! You can’t discuss anything with them!”

“Who told you?” Sam’s voice was flat and emotionless.

“Tina told me. Why does that even matter? You’re putting Blaine in danger and he’s been through enough – enough! 

_Goddamn, Tina, you’re supposed to help me._ Sam made a mental note to have it out with her when – if – he made it out of this conversation alive. 

“Kurt. Of course he’s been through enough – “

“Don’t you think the shooting alone was enough trauma? He needs to recover. He needs to get his strength back. He doesn’t need to go through this all again now! Why right now?”

He decided to try reason, and he raised his voice a little to add life and expression to it, because unless he made the effort, he’d appear cold and that was the last thing he wanted Kurt to think of him. As he thought out his words carefully, he could hear Kurt fume, filling up the Bushwick loft with steam. “Blaine hadn’t been sleeping since the shooting. He got nightmares of what happened at Sadie Hawkins. Look, if – I hope nothing like this ever happens, but if he – if he goes through anything like this again his nightmares will keep coming back. You can’t bury that forever.”

“And why would you just assume that horrible things will keep on happening to Blaine?” Kurt snapped. 

“Running away to Dalton made him feel safe, but he never stood up to them. I understand why he left Thurston, but look, he’ll carry it forever unless he does this.”

“Dave Karofsky assaulted me, remember? He threatened to kill me. Don’t tell me I don’t remember that every time some jerk runs his eyes up and down at me on the street or calls me a fag under his breath?” There was an undercurrent of hurt and pain in Kurt’s voice and it stung to listen to him. 

“Look. I can’t pretend I even understand how that is like.”

“No. You won’t understand. You won’t ever have to feel like how the very fact that _you being you_ is enough for someone to hate you or want to beat you up or want to kill you.” 

They both went silent. Sam felt the tension, so thick between them now that it was almost a physical presence, and it went taut, like a bow string, or the harsh pull on your tendons when you pulled back the gun trigger. _The doe. It bled because of me._

Sam fought to keep the visceral hurt out of his own voice. _Breathe. Big breath in, little puffs out._ He knew Kurt was right; here was an experience Sam would never have to go through. On to another tack.

“Did that stop you from being you?” Sam asked abruptly, so the question hit both of them squarely in the face. “No, you didn’t.” His voice got more confident and rolled on. “You own it. So does Blaine. But that doesn’t mean he has to put up with the – the consequences every single time it comes up and makes him upset.”

Kurt’s voice rose again with the stress. Sam felt sorry. He _was_ sorry. “You can’t sit there and promise me that this will make Blaine feel safer. You can’t sit there and say that and tell me that he’ll be okay.”

“No.” Sam was quiet. He rustled around in his sheets, feeling smothered and hot. “I can’t promise that.”

“Do you promise that he won’t fall apart? That he won’t have more nightmares because of this – this?”

“No.”

There was despair, now. “Then what’s the point?”

“Because if this helps him – isn’t it worth trying? Fuck it, Kurt.” Sam’s voice rose now. He was getting angry and feeling spiteful and the gun trigger drew tight. “You’re right. I won’t understand what it’s like to be gay-bashed. But you weren’t here during the shooting, Kurt. You weren’t here, so _you_ don’t pretend _you_ understand what we went through here.”

This threw Kurt off just a little, and there was a second, tense silence. 

When he spoke again, Kurt’s voice was filled with fear. “Blaine – Blaine told me. I can’t – I can’t imagine it. You’re right. He was terrified. I couldn’t understand him. I had to stay on the phone with him so he could get a little sleep but he woke up later – his parents had to stay with him all night. But that was Coach Sue. This – this is different, Sam. Don’t you see that? He could really get hurt. He’s already been hurt.”

“I know. Fuck, Kurt, don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I remembered that every single time I saw him at school and you could tell he hadn’t slept at all? Don’t you think I know this sounds crazy?” and Sam felt himself perching on the edge of hysteria. He hadn’t slept himself and his plan was looking less and less like it made sense the more he talked to Kurt. 

“Then why the hell are you even doing this to him?” The gun trigger snapped back and the steel shot through Kurt’s voice and hit its target true. Kurt’s tone dropped. Kurt had caught on to him. 

“ _I’m_ not doing this to him!”

“Stop putting your issues with the shooting on Blaine. You deal with that yourself. I don’t give a fuck what you’re feeling right now but whatever it is, you need to stop using Blaine as a shield to handle whatever it is that’s driving you crazy.”

“And so what if it is? I’ll protect him this time. You know I will. You know I will.”

“And if you don’t and something goes wrong? What then? Will you pick up the pieces?”

“I don’t know. I’ll just make sure nothing does go wrong. And I’ll pick up… anything that needs to be picked up.” His voice was quavery. He didn’t sound sure and it was killing him not to feel secure in his own plan.

“Sam Evans, you’re a mess. A serious fucking mess.” 

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath in. “Are you going to talk to Blaine?”

“I’m going to try to talk him out of this because it’s ridiculous. It’s not safe. But – “ and there was a considering pause, “I know you’re doing this because you care.”

Sam sounded hollow. “I do. I know you’re calling because you care, too. But what if Blaine himself decides he’s going to go through with it? Are you going to put _your_ issues on him, too?”

This time the silence was decidedly nasty. “He can do as he likes. It’ll kill me, but it’s his decision. Sam Evans, if he does go through with this, and you don’t keep him safe, I will make sure you never, ever forget that you failed.”

If Kurt wasn’t going to play nice, Sam decided that he wasn’t going to play nice, either. “Don’t worry. I know I wouldn’t forget it. I also don’t want _you_ to forget that you did confront Karofsky. And you won. Even if it was in Principal Figgins’ office. Don’t deny that confronting him helped you.”

A sigh hovered over the phone. 

“I love him, Sam.” Kurt’s voice cracked with pain. He sounded old and tired. “I get it now. I get it. I was stubborn. I can’t – I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to him. All I could think about was if Blaine was safe and what was I going to do if – if he was gone, before we could fix – us?”

There was despair and heartbreak there, here, and Sam silently reached out to him in sympathy, because, yes, he did know what that was like. It reminded him of Brittany, trapped God knew where in the school while they’d been separated, and it reminded him of Tina trapped futilely outside, beating herself up while God knew what was happening in the school, and it reminded him of Blaine’s black, red-rimmed eyes mirroring his own hunted desperation.

“I know,” Sam said quietly. “He’s my best friend. I won’t let anything get to him.”

“But you can’t promise that he’ll be safe.”

“No.”

“This had better work, Sam. I’ll talk to you later.” With a snap, Kurt hung up.

Sam tossed his phone to the other side of his room and screamed in frustration. He wasn’t sure if he was angry more at himself or at Kurt and whether or not he was going to be okay, because at this point, he didn’t know, either.

III  
Blaine spent a lot of time in the garage, hopping lightly on his feet, punching it all out again on the helpless bag. He vibrated with anticipation and it – it felt good. It felt cleansing.

This morning’s conversation with Kurt had not gone well. Blaine had been on the fence about it to start – he’d had another nightmare, and this time their voices were around him and he’d been punching angrily and desperately at the air to find them and his heart had already been racing with fear. Kurt’s call had caught him before school today – the Friday before the game – and he’d already been so busy that morning, what with getting ready, and remembering the moves for the new complicated Cheerios routine to be unveiled at the game – so talking to Kurt was already going to be fraught with tension. 

Talking with Kurt was always going to be a complicated situation. Beautiful – Blaine drew in a sudden breath – and loving, but complicated. Kurt loved him, so he couldn’t blame him for being so concerned and feeling so helpless. He closed his eyes and recalled the conversation in his mind, savoring the words – not that he wanted Kurt to feel pain, but the care in his voice stirred the hope underneath his breastbone. 

_Blaine, don’t do this. Don’t do this. I don’t want you to get hurt and I’d – I’d die if you did._

_I know. I know you care, Kurt. I’ll be all right. I’ll have my friends with me and I don’t want to run anymore. Look, I ran when I went to Dalton. I need some closure. You got some closure – didn’t you? I need some, too._

Kurt had paused, then, as if all of a sudden, he’d given up, or he wanted to add something more, then thought better of it. _Be careful. Call me afterward._

 _You know I will._ And Blaine had smiled and that, also, had felt good. And the school day had been all right. He got through it. He even thought he’d aced his calculus test. He ate lunch and laughed with his friends and he went to Cheerios practice without thinking much – much – about what Sam said they were going to start doing that night.

All of this didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to take precautions. So he’d checked out Sun Tzu’s The Art of War from the McKinley library at Artie’s urging, because war was what they were heading into, and it was best to be a good Scout and be prepared. “Laying Plans” - that’s the boxing, Blaine figured. “Waging War” – get in, get it done, get out, don’t get anyone needlessly hurt, least of all his friends. “The Plan of Attack.” “Tactical Dispositions.” Stay together and stay strong. Defend your position. Don’t retreat unless your position can be defended after you get there. “The Use of Intelligence” – that was Artie’s arena, gathering all the information they could (non-creepily) get so they knew what to expect when they got – there. Where that was, Blaine didn’t know. Sam and Artie weren’t letting him know until the time came.

Blaine did plan to talk it all out first, really. Really. 

After school, Sam picked him up from the school parking lot. Blaine felt as ready as he was going to be. He threw his Cheerios bag into the cab of the truck. Sam saw the book peeking out through the half-closed zipper opening in Blaine’s Cheerio bag and shook his head, grimly. Tina and Artie blinked at him, squeezed in like sardines, in confusion from the backseat. And all of a sudden, the reality of what they were about to do got real and frightening and the fantasy of everything going well and hunky-dory evaporated like the waves of heat steaming up from the sidewalk.

“What? What’s wrong?” Blaine felt his voice grow tight. _Keep it together, Blaine. Be strong. I can’t fall apart._

“You won’t really need that where we’re going. Not first, anyway.” All four of them were silent on the drive.

IV  
Blaine recognized the cemetery from the road. It was a peaceful, green place, dotted with stone mausoleums and solitary, overhanging trees. It wasn’t kept up as well as it could have, and the grass needed watering. Bouquets dotted the plots. There was a long, low, dark building; the main building, for the marble crypts set into the walls. He hadn’t been here since his grandmother’s funeral, then his grandfather’s. Infrequently, his parents had come by to see that the graves looked neat and tidy and put fresh blooms down, so they’d know up in Heaven (his mother said, fondly) that they were still remembered. Blaine had preferred to wear his grandfather’s bow ties, and eat his grandmother’s banana bread, but just because he hadn’t come by to the graves lately didn’t mean that he’d forgotten.

It wasn’t crowded on a Friday evening, and the red, red sun was just now sinking into a bank of fiery orange and yellow. Sam unloaded Artie’s wheelchair and put Artie carefully in it; Artie peered at the map through his glasses and told them where to go. Tina walked on ahead, pushing Artie’s wheelchair, as Sam and Blaine silently walked over to the grave. 

“This is it?”

“Yeah. This is one of them. It isn’t far.” Sam’s face was carefully set in neutral lines, but he had an uncharacteristic downward curl to his lips, and grayish shadows underneath his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Blaine gripped Sam’s strong forearm.

Sam coughed. “Yeah. Yeah, why wouldn’t we be? I mean, I?”

Blaine frowned at him. “Come on, Sam, you can talk to me – “

“Later, dude. Let’s get this done.”

They’d arrived at the grave site. The simple gray headstone said: “Robert Luke Garry. Born November 2, 1995. Died April 22, 2012. Dearly beloved son, taken away from us too soon…” and a blurb about living in sin and dying in sin that _didn’t make sense, it didn’t make any sense because who was this guy?_

Blaine racked his brain, trying to remember if he’d known him, but regretfully – maybe mercifully? – he couldn’t remember a thing. He’d been hurt so badly that he had stayed in the hospital for two weeks. He’d been medicated on a drip at the beginning and apparently that pain medication had done its job very well because he couldn’t remember anything at all.

Sun Tzu had said nothing about a situation like this.

“Are you sure this is… one of them?”

Artie nodded and retracted a color-printed still wedged into a Thurston High School yearbook from the folder on his lap. He offered both to Blaine. 

“This is from the video screenshot… and I circled his picture. I’d say this is one of your guys.”

Sam looked over Blaine’s shoulder as they both swiveled their heads back and forth between the still and the yearbook. In the yearbook, Robert Luke Garry looked like a clean-cut guy; what the news would often call an “All-American boy next door” type. Brown neat hair, brown eyes, tanned skin. He had the look of a jock, like Sam, except he looked broader about the shoulders. He was dressed in a checked shirt. He was smiling and it reached his eyes. In the still, Robert Luke Garry had a gray hood over his eyes and a snarl on his lips. His eyes were narrow and hooded and dark. Blaine looked away from the still and then down at the ground where he stood, at the foot of Robert Luke Garry’s grave. He’d been a junior when he died. It had been last year, while Blaine was at McKinley. 

“Where did you get the yearbook, Artie?” Tina asked quietly. She couldn’t help it; every conversation in a graveyard couldn’t help but be silent. 

“Karofsky gave it to me,” Artie said matter-of-factly. 

“I didn’t know you were friends with Karofsky,” Tina said, a hint of disgust creeping into her tone, but she modified it quickly, because she remembered that Karofsky, in the end, had been just as fragile and frightened and vulnerable as all of them. Perhaps even more so. Perhaps, if she hadn’t had any friends at all, if she hadn’t had any support network, she could have been faced with – with that, too. Sometimes life looked and felt hopeless, but she had had the support to get her through those terrible times. 

“I’m not friends with him. I just found him from a profile on Facebook. He’s at college now. He didn’t want to say where. I messaged him about getting a yearbook and he didn’t ask any questions. He mailed it to me with no return address. He said I could keep it.”

They all went silent again, because they knew why Dave Karofsky didn’t want the yearbook back.

“Anyway,” Sam said, breaking the quiet, “This is one of the guys. Blaine, I know this isn’t what you were hoping for but maybe – “

“No,” Blaine said strongly, looking down at the grass, gone still; there was no breeze, so the unevenly cut, slightly browning strands looked a little straggly. “I’m fine.”

“We’ll leave you alone,” Sam said, struggling to keep his voice even. “Come on, Tina. I need to talk to you about something.” Two red spots appeared on his cheeks, and Blaine could hear them as they moved off, pushing Artie along, some feet away. 

Blaine didn’t know what to say, now that he was alone with Robert Luke Garry. He flipped through the yearbook, to where the still had marked the page, and he found that it was turned to a memorial page – Robert Luke Garry’s memorial page. He’d died in a car accident. There were a few terribly written poems from his friends and pictures of him smiling and standing with his friends at football games and in a school hallway. 

He sighed and looked away. Ahead, Robert Luke Garry’s gravestone stood in for him. Blaine decided to try that. “So. I’m here and you’re also here.”

The gravestone didn’t answer. “I’m sorry that you died. People loved you. I hope you know that. I’m… I’m sorry to say that I don’t remember you. I hope we weren’t friends. Friends shouldn’t – shouldn’t treat each other that way the – the way you treated me.”

The gravestone didn’t answer. 

“I’m sorry that you couldn’t find it in yourself to accept me for who I am. I wasn’t going to change who I was just so that you could live with me being in your school. Yeah – “ Blaine’s voice warmed and got stronger – “I hate that. I hate that you and your buddies beat the shit out of me and made me run and put me in the hospital.”

The gravestone didn’t answer. 

“I hate that you made me want to – to end myself because I couldn’t stop hating myself. I hate that I’m not standing here face to face with you while you listen to me because you should know what you did.”

The gravestone didn’t answer. The earth stood still.

“Nothing will ever make that right for me. Nothing.”

The gravestone didn’t answer. Blaine was drained of things to say to the ghost of Robert Luke Garry. He stood there while Sam and Tina and Artie argued about something – it carried a little, something about Kurt, but he couldn’t hear. It wasn’t until he heard a thin, reedy female voice close to him that he jumped in his shoes.

“Did you know him? My Rob?”

“Ma’am?” Blaine turned his head to look down at an older woman, with graying hair, dressed neatly in a dark blue suit. She had a pink carnation in her lapel, and it matched the bouquet that she dropped onto Robert Luke Garry’s grave.

Blaine coughed, discomfited. “Ummm… No, not well, but it’s close to the day he died, so I thought I would… pay my respects.”

The older woman nodded, as if this was the perfectly natural thing to do, which in her mind, Blaine supposed, made sense. She passed her black eyes over his McKinley Cheerios uniform blearily. “I’m his grandmother. Clara Garry.”

Blaine extended his hand to her and pressed her frail, veined hand carefully. “My name is Blaine.”

She turned and looked down at the grave. “Here, help me get up after I’m done. I’m going to trim the grass.” She knelt, with difficulty, and took a pair of long shears out of her black leather purse.

 _What am I doing? I should just turn and walk away,_ Blaine thought. _This guy is nothing to me and he – he was an asshole. A jerk. A homophobic jerk who wanted to kill me._ But he waited, and stilled himself, and helped her up, shakily, after she was finished doing what she could. She closed her eyes and reached out for Blaine’s hand as she mumbled something like a prayer. 

Blaine bit his lip and waited for her to finish. It was a long time. It was tense. Part of him wanted to kick the ground and scream and rent the still, heavy air with his screams. The other part, so schooled to follow norms and authority, made him sit – and wait, and be patient. 

When she’d finished her final reedy “Amen”, she popped her eyes open and looked long and hard at him. Her soft stare was searching and there was no trace of cloudiness in them. And all of a sudden, it all fell, tumbling down. Blaine felt something inside of him uncurl and melt slightly and relax. It was like he was looking at the God he thought he’d known until the day he found out he was gay – the God he thought had abandoned him a long time ago, then found again in Kurt’s smile, then lost again when he’d lost Kurt – or when Kurt had lost him. 

“You’re him, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Blaine said.

She raised her ringed hand up from his palm and gently – so gently – cupped his cheek.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry he hurt you. He was angry. He had problems. He wasn’t right. I know you must be very angry at him.”

“I know. I am,” he replied, and closed his eyes against her caress. 

“Do you forgive him?”

“I… I don’t know. I want to. I really want to.”

She looked up at him and it felt like a gentle beam of light streamed from her smile. “I know you do.”

“How do I let go?”

Clara Garry said, “It took me a long time to forgive him, too. I had to. If you don’t – it eats you up inside. It makes you hollow. You have to take the first steps – and talk. That’s why you’re here.”

Blaine didn’t interrupt her.

“We didn’t teach him to do things like that. We tried to teach him how to love other people. We don’t know how it happened. We taught him how to do right things. We thought we did.” It came out in a rush and it captured what Blaine thought she must have felt at the time: bewilderment, disillusionment. “We were – we were all stunned that our boy could be capable of so much hate. But we had to love him. We still do. We – we wanted to say something to you and your family but you moved away before we could contact you. We – we are sorry. We are all sorry. Please, please accept our apologies.” 

Tears slid down her cheek. She was crying – not for Robert Luke Garry – but for him. And that was when he let go. He’d never known he could forgive that – that – but – he did. One of the locks had been turned. Blaine felt _lighter_. 

He took out a handkerchief from the pocket of his Cheerios uniform and offered it to her. “Here. Here.” He smiled at her. It touched his eyes. “I do. Thank you.”

She gave him a little nod and smiled and turned away, wiping her cheek, the damp little handkerchief clumped in her palm. She took Robert Luke Garry away with her. He watched the little woman walk, unsteadily, over the bumpy ground. 

“You okay, dude?” Sam put his hand on Blaine’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Let’s go. We’re done here.”

Tina put her hand over his, exactly where Robert Luke Garry’s grandmother had held his hand a few minutes ago. He looked after her retreating, tiny form. 

“Who was that, Blaine?” Artie asked.

“No one,” he replied. _That part is over._

“How do you feel, Blaine? Do you feel… better?” She sounded like she was trying to control herself, too, and Sam, tight-lipped and desperately tired, wouldn’t look at her. It seemed like they’d had a fight.

“I’m… I’m okay. I am okay.” And he was. They turned back, away from the shadowy cemetery with its lingering ghosts. But - “We’re not done quite yet,” Artie said, as their feet hit the graveled parking lot. “There’s two more to go, and they’re very much still in this world. They’ll be at the game tomorrow night.”

Blaine sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Tina took his hand. This time, in spite of Mike, he didn’t want to push her away. He returned her squeeze.

“This – this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. But – but I’m so glad that you’re all here with me. I don’t know what I would do without you guys. Thank you. Thank you.”

There was nothing to say after that. Sam was glaring at Tina through the windshield; Tina was haughtily pretending not to notice; and Artie had put his headphones in resolutely to make the silence go away. Blaine was still holding hands with Tina, but he was still wrapped up in his thoughts. It was a quiet ride on the drive back home to Lima. 

It wasn’t over until tomorrow was over, and Blaine was nervous – he still was very nervous – about what tomorrow would bring. He flexed his muscles. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but at least his friends would be with him, and it was nice – it really was nice – to finally feel more free.


	8. Never Forget This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina finally opens up. Blaine confronts the last two tormentors from the first Sadie Hawkins dance. Sam cracks under the strain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for homophobic slurs and fighting (no weapons, nothing graphic). I do not condone or encourage homophobia or violence of any kind. If you are suicidal, depressed, or a victim of violence, please, please seek help. 
> 
> I assumed that Blaine’s attackers were also freshmen at the time of the attack, as Glee never says how old they were, to make this fic work. 
> 
> I highly recommend listening to the Imagine Dragons song “Demons” while reading this chapter. “Demons” is easily found on Spotify.

I  
The afternoon of the spring football game was still very humid, but at least now there was a breeze. It was hot and heavy like the puff of air blasting out of an oven. It drowned out the sweet scents of the promising little flower banks popping up at nearly every house, and city hall had already issued a warning to water the lawns only during mornings and evenings. There was anticipation thick in the air and people were waiting, on tenterhooks, for rain; instead, a playful spring of clear lemony sunshine and tufts of white stringy cloud had only gasped for air and then rushed headlong into a relentless summer.

Hometown pride was on the line, and both the lack of rain and the Thurston-McKinley rivalry were killing even the grass and the flowers. Thurston High School was McKinley's closest and most bitter rival for athletic glory. Until Coach Bieste had taken over, Thurston had usually come out the winner. Now, the hard-won football title standing proudly in McKinley's trophy case rubbed salt into the wound. Soccer, baseball, softball, and track had been already been fought over, and the two schools had split the title count down the middle. So, winning this spring football game - even though it wasn't a regular game - would do a lot to soothe Dragon spirits. Those upstart Titans needed a thorough lesson, anyway, because who did they think they were, _winners_? Just because there'd been a dumb gun incident didn't mean that they should be allowed to win, just because people felt sorry for them. As far as Thurston was concerned, shit happened as a part of life. McKinley should just deal with it and move on.

And so, McKinley had fallen back into the old lines. Slushying resumed. Kids got pushed around again. The security guards were still very much in evidence, but they blended into the background, against the walls, like camouflage. The guards shrugged as students put their bags through the metal detectors every morning. The little private cliques - the jocks, the nerds, the hipsters - had re-formed and party lines weren't crossed so often anymore. Strangers equaled danger. 

Besides, the gun incident had been explained, so there wasn't any need to get weepy and emotional anymore. _Coach Sue's always been a little, you know. It was her gun, did you know that? She had a whole arsenal in her safe. Her parents were Nazi hunters and one of the Nazis finally tracked her down and she fired it at him to scare him off._ Coach Sue had mysteriously disappeared, so this explanation made sense to most of the kids, who'd been frightened to death of her anyway. 

It had largely fallen to Blaine to keep the Cheerios focussed. Blaine had an enormous capacity for doing and a school routine that was timed down to the second to fit in everything he'd put on his own shoulders. Tina had wished sometimes that Blaine would be more concerned about himself rather than the needs of others, so it was nice, for once, to see Blaine trying to help himself. And good people needed to be helped. If there was anyone else who understood what it was like to feel marginalized and helpless and isolated in a sea of conformity, it was Tina. Still thinking, she put her dishes in the sink and turned away to climb the steep set of stairs up to her bedroom to finish getting ready for the game. 

(Mike? Now that was a stalemate, an issue slated for further discussion, but until then? She wasn't going to pine over a boy who'd thrown her over for some hot girl in Chicago. She kept her eyes open for other nice boys. She was more than okay with going it alone, if need be. Dancers and singers needed solo time to get their creative juices going.)

The hair had to be pinned up; it was too hot to tolerate it hanging about her shoulders. Tina surveyed herself in the floor-length mirror and fastened the clasp of her new necklace. Steampunk stuff was so fun and everyone should see that little futuristic looking sonic wave gun pendant. Time to go get Artie, to whom she'd promised she pick up, what? five minutes ago? twenty minutes ago? She swept confidently down the stairs, called out a goodbye to her newspaper-reading parents, and fluttered out to her car. She left Artie's copy of The Art of War on the kitchen table. 

II  
Artie didn't waste any time in reproving her for being both late ("Twenty-nine minutes!") and shamefully unprepared. He was prepared. He had his freshly charged phone and the folder stamped "Top Secret" and Thurston yearbook and scribbled-over notes and by goodness, he was going to win this thing. "I call shotgun."

"You know today's not about you, right?" Tina asked testily as she started up the car and checked her mirrors: her eye makeup was looking amazing today. 

"I know," Artie said joyfully. He importantly shuffled and re-shuffled the documents on his lap. "It's just nice to know we're going to win, for a change. We don't get to feel that very often. And Blaine's a good guy."

Tina smiled affectionately into the rear view mirror. "I know that. He takes the time to listen to me, and talk, even if he's busy, and he's always busy." Her tone was proud and fond and she backed out slowly onto the street in front of Artie's house as she finished talking, her mind still half on Blaine. 

Artie's face fell. He let out a long, wistful sigh and glanced over at her, lingering over her face as she started off down the road on a very familiar route towards the football stadium. "Do you wish I was more like him?"

Tina bit her lip and met his eyes for just a split second. She had to look down at her lap to avoid the upset look on his face.

"So, yes. Maybe we wouldn't have broken up during freshman year if I was." He broke off the look and stared through his window. Tina kept her eyes focused on the road and her car air freshener jiggled as they turned a corner off of Artie's street onto another interminable maze of suburban houses and stubby fences. Dogs barked from their owners' front yards and kids rode their bikes down the street or drew on the parched sidewalk with chalk. It wasn't until they'd moved down another full street of idyllic suburban bliss that Tina decided to break the long, awkward discomfort between them. 

She came to a stop sign, decisively applied the brake, and crossed her arms. "What is it exactly that you're wanting from me?" She turned halfway in her chair and looked Artie straight in the eyes. 

Artie's mouth pressed into a straight, thin line and he met her look, stare for stare. "I don't want to leave high school without one good talk with you, Tina. You weren't honest with me before."

She sighed. She swallowed hard and jerked up her chin and prepared to give Artie a good dose of truth. She meant for it to come out gentler, but she didn't know any other way to express it. It came out bluntly. "Relationships change. We're still friends, but we're not as close as we could have been. You're way too into yourself and the things you love and not enough into other people." 

She kept her foot decisively on the brake, but her heart skipped half a beat. She really hadn't wanted to wound Artie's feelings and here again was a comment of hers that had come out all wrong. _Stupid me, why can't I be nicer?_ She amended it hastily: "Not - not that there's anything wrong with that!" 

But it seemed as if they were going to be all right after all, because Artie didn't miss his cue. He spoke almost appreciatively: "I know I am. It's why I like filmmaking. You get to watch and comment and tell stories. You don't have to engage unless you want to." 

"I was the same," she said quietly. "I wore the goth look and I stuttered because it would keep people away. But I loved singing. And then I realized I didn't want to be so alone. Then there was us. Then Mike and I got together and I learned to love dancing just as much as I love singing." 

Artie's voice held a slight quiver. "But you were...? You did care?"

She smiled. "Of course I did. I researched new legs for you, didn't I? You were my first love. That doesn't mean we would have worked out." She reached out and patted his knee affectionately. She finally let go of the brake, turned back to the road, and drove on, determined to make it to the game on time because they were already late. 

Sometimes, the truth hurt. But, Tina had just found, being honest really wasn't that hard once you got over the obstacles, because they weren't going to use the truth to hurt each other, after all. She kept driving, but it got easier to breathe as the air conditioner finally kicked in, and the blast of cooler air tickled the ends of Artie's mop of brown hair and the tendrils hanging about the smooth planes of her face. 

Artie gave her a hearty little half-grin. "See? It wasn't so hard, was it... saying what you had to say. Right, _pal_?" and he gave her a little tickly nudge in the ribs with his fingers. 

"Right, _friend_ ," and she playfully pushed his hand away. "Now, go pick a radio station. Something not too sentimental."

The last lines of "We Will Rock You" got them all the way into the McKinley parking lot. It filtered out through the popped top in Tina's car and their voices tried to drown out Queen's. Artie pointed to the edge of the lot closest to the crowded football stands, which were already filling up quickly with both Dragon and Titan fans. It was loud. There was a lot of excited cheering and talking and squealing. Banners fluttered in the hot breeze and there was already a lot of trash - thrown paper cups, chip bags, bent plastic straws - strewn about on the browning lawn. 

As they got closer to where Sam was waving, right in front of the empty space he'd saved for them, Tina's mouth dropped and her bright, energetic face fell like a stone.

Artie stupidly gaped after her. "Oh... wait."

They couldn't have timed their next exclamation better. "Oh, _shit_." "He _actually_ \- " 

III  
Sam seemed pretty normal to a stranger's casual eye, except that he was not used to wearing glasses. They were smudged with prints and the frame slipped down his sweaty nose in the heat as he got Artie's folded wheelchair out from the trunk of Tina's car. 

After going out to the Westerville cemetery last night, Sam had been feeling perfectly normal, if a bit... tired. _I don't need Evan to help Blaine confront a dead guy._ He didn't want to press his best friend, especially as it involved, well, that. Sam was conscious, most of all, of what Kurt had said: _If he gets hurt, I will never, ever, let you forget that you failed to protect him._ Bad memories sometimes warranted protection, but Blaine had seemed thoughtful, tranquil, even, after the cemetery visit. Something restful had settled on his shoulders. Sam would wait until Blaine wanted to open up about it, but he could already tell that it had done him some good. 

You didn't need a smarter twin brother for something that simple. You needed a smarter twin brother for situations like the one Sam had (stupidly, he thought) dragged Blaine and everyone else into: confronting two guys who'd already put Blaine in the hospital once and who were likely going to do the same thing today. _Stupid me. I thought I knew about people, and it turns out people are way more complicated than art, or English class._

He wasn't putting Blaine in harm's way on purpose just so that he could save him, right? It wasn't just all about a wounded deer in a distant thicket or about the guilt he'd felt about not protecting Brittany - right?

In the midst of all of this uncertainty, it was best to just rely on your smarter twin brother's better decisions. 

Evan blinked back at Artie and Tina and they couldn't think of anything to say right off, so they looked a frantic conversation with their eyes, back and forth between each other and then darting to meet Evan's. _You start. No, you start. Oh fine, let me start then, Tina, but you better back me up._ Artie adopted a pleasant look and a inoffensive smile as he looked up to Evan's blank face. "Uh... hi. Where's Sam? We need to talk with him. Is he with Brittany?"

Evan huffed and ran his hands through his slicked-back hair. "G'day t' you too. The fine sheila's out there startin' up her warmup for th' footy game. Blaine's out theah too with her. Sam'll be out in a sec so yer stuck with me for the time bein'." He swept his eyes over Tina's dress approvingly. "Good onya, Miss Cohen-Chang."

"Evan, can you please, please tell Sam to come out?" Tina wasn't actually sorry that she'd told Kurt about Sam's plan - because someone had to tell Kurt - but Evan being here frightened her a little. Unexpected twists made her feel as if something was about to go unavoidably wrong. She pushed aside the irritation she'd felt since their fight last night in Westerville because someone was going to have to keep Sam, or Evan, held together. She made her voice sweet and pleading. 

Evan snorted derisively. _Why would they want to see that dumbass_? "I'll see what I can do. I'll get Blaine and we'll meetcha under the bleachuhs," and he ran off towards the field. Artie and Tina stared after him and shook their heads at each other. 

_I thought I'd have to take care of Blaine today_ , Tina thought with frustration. _I didn't know I'd have to take care of Sam, too_.

IV  
Blaine gripped Sam/Evan hard by the shoulder and talked to him in a firm, even tone that convinced even himself that everything was going to be okay. 

Blaine wasn't used to doing nice things for himself. He was a born helper and part of him felt actually guilty - as if he was imposing on the goodwill and time of his friends, because he should be the one helping them achieve their dreams. But he was grateful - because he would never had had the courage - ironic to use that word - to face his own bullies if it hadn't been for their support.

It didn't mean that he wasn't nervous. He was nervous. He obviously didn't want to get hurt. He also desperately didn't want anyone else to get hurt. And Sam choosing this moment to fall apart made him even more apprehensive about what was going to happen.

Blaine talked to Sam/Evan feverishly as they walked quickly towards the spot underneath the bleachers. He didn't even feel as if he made any sense. He desperately hoped that the few seconds it took to get over there would be all it would take to lift the cloud from his best friend's mind.

V  
The plan was simple. It _had_ been simple. 

Artie and Sam had pored over the yearbook, had memorized their names and faces, had hunted about online (as non-creepily as they could), and had found out that both guys were members of the Thurston football team. 

Dave Karofsky had been a member of that football team. He'd known who they were. He told Artie and Sam that they were both Buckeyes fans - and that they'd been behind the relentless online hazing campaign that had led to his suicide attempt (although he didn't mention that part - Artie and Sam had figured that out).

All Dave had wanted from them was a promise that they would be careful as hell, so he'd gotten a hold of football season tickets - very hard to get, but his dad was a member of the Buckeyes Club. Once he'd told his dad what they were for, he'd handed them over without a question and Dave had mailed them to Artie to serve as a bribe to lure the two guys out so they'd actually meet them. 

Artie remembered that online chat, clear as glass. 

_Why are you helping us_?

Kurt. And me. Just because it happened to us doesn't mean Blaine should have to deal with that too.

_You did that to Kurt._

I know. I'll pay for that the rest of my life. I'm lucky he forgave me.

_You are._

I'm taking a world religions class in college right now. I could've taught the lecture about karma.

_Yeah._

I'm still trying to forgive myself.

_It still doesn't mean you deserved what you got at Westerville. I'm sorry for that. I'm glad you're in a better place now._

I know that. I got out. I'm dating a nice guy. I'm happier. And I feel like I'm in a place where I can finally do some good.

_Thank you for stepping up._

You're welcome. Tell Blaine to be careful. Tell Kurt that... I'm okay.

_I will._

Once Artie and Sam had got a hold of the tickets, they carefully let it slip online that they could be had for a low low price and from there, it was a waiting game - a quick one. The exchange was going to be under the bleachers and then Blaine was going to be able to confront them and it would be all okay, right?

But despite the fact that Blaine and Brittany were chill, neither Sam nor Evan had wanted Brittany to be a part of anything that might get her hurt. Sam hadn't been there to protect her during the shooting, so she didn't need to be there under the bleachers, period. And while she'd been a lot more resilient than Blaine, Sam still felt an impulsive need to keep her away from everything awful in the world. 

Sam hadn't counted on Brittany being there, the unknown factor. That unknown factor was currently standing under the bleachers, in her perky red Cheerios uniform, looking beautiful and athletic and twirling her ponytail as she talked. Blaine and Sam could see only part of her blonde head from between the two guys' shoulders. Tina and Artie were making their leisurely way towards the little group, off to the guys' left, to cut them off in case the guys decided to run. 

That was the plan. The very simple plan. That artful Sun Tzu plan flew straight out of Sam/Evan's head. He ran towards Brittany with all the singlemindedness of a bull in the corrida, blind with rage. Blaine had no choice but to take off after him, yelling, "Evan! Evan!". Everything was already dissolving into chaos. 

VI  
"What the hell! _Get away_ from her!" and Sam/Evan shoved roughly into both of them from behind. She danced nimbly away from their bodies before they struck her. 

Since it was just one body striking two, the guys only got a bit nudged off of the heels of their feet. They turned around, more surprised than angry. The force of the collision knocked Evan's glasses off of his face, so they glanced at each other; evidently they'd known how to recognize Sam for the ticket dropoff. 

"Relax, we're just here for the tickets. There's hotter girls at Thurston, anyway," said the taller of the two. His blue varsity letterman's jacket said _Jon_ in embroidered white letters. He had an ingratiating smile and a shock of black hair. He nudged his friend in the side suggestively and snickered, a nasty little gesture that set Sam's teeth on edge. Jon's friend's jacket said _Stu_. Both guys looked like they worked out every single day of their lives. 

"I'm hot enough for MIT," said Brittany matter-of-factly. "And too much hot for either or both of you to handle." She crossed her arms. 

_Atta girl_ , Sam thought appreciatively. 

"Brittany, what are you doing here?" Tina stopped herself from revealing more, which was just enough time for Blaine to come up right behind the intimidating looking Jon and Stu without them noticing. Unobtrusively, Artie started up the video camera on the collar of his shirt. 

"What? I'm just here to help out. You need a distraction, don't you?" said Brittany too, too innocently. 

Stu looked at his friend and suspicion dawned slowly over both of their blank faces.

"What the fuck, man, this is a setup. I bet there... There's not even any tickets."

Jon shrugged. "I wasn't even going to pay for them, anyway. Let's go."

" _I_ have your tickets."

Blaine's voice rang out clear as a bell.

Jon didn't even flinch. It was Stu who tilted his head, like a dog who'd just heard a far-off whistle. He swiveled on his heel and looked straight down at a very confident-looking, very together-looking Blaine Anderson. He yanked Jon around by the sleeve, so they were both facing Blaine dead on. Blaine still had to look up at them, so in the face of the height disadvantage, he had to make up for it in stance. He put the right amount of indignation and steely determination in his eyes. He stood up ramrod-straight and balled his fists behind his back. Most of all, Blaine hoped that faking his confidence was going to be enough to get him through, because he really wasn't sure, despite all the boxing practice, that he could successfully defend himself against them.

"Well, shit. If it isn't... tiny little Blaine Anderson. Looking gayer than ever, I see. Nice uniform." Stu smirked and laughed in derision, his gray eyes mocking. "Still putting half an oil slick in your hair?"

"Well, shit. If it isn't big, bad Stu Lowe. Still bullying half of Westerville, I see?" Blaine said evenly. He tried to hide the nervous tension in his muscles. 

Tina stared at him alertly. Blaine wasn't shifting his ground. Sam was biting his lip but he looked okay, at least for the moment. He'd thankfully dropped the Australian accent. Brittany took a hold of Sam's wrist. Her grip was hard and nervous and her knuckles went white. 

"It isn't bullying, it's just pointing out the obvious." Jon wrinkled his nose with distaste. "Gays like you make real men uncomfortable. Like you guys are always checking my ass out."

"Don't flatter yourself," Blaine snapped. The crackle in his voice was sharp and derisive. 

"I thought we'd _talked to you_ about being gay," Stu said slyly. "It's not a safe lifestyle choice. You know?" 

"I can go to a dance with whomever I want to," Blaine retorted. The color raised in his cheeks and he pulled his fists out from behind his back to rest at his sides. He flexed his biceps. Just in case.... but _stay in control, goddamn it_. He couldn't control the sudden breathlessness in his voice and the racing of his heartbeat. "I don't go to dances to offend people. I have the right to have fun at a school dance just like you do."

"People don't want to see gays being gay. It's..." Stu searched for the worst word he could think of, " _Offensive_. Unnatural. Can't even say anything fun anymore. All the gay makes it so you can't even tell a good joke."

"I'm not a joke," Blaine said dangerously. His hazel eyes went rigid and flashed like sword blades in the sun. He was feeling a cathartic swell in his chest, like he was an agent of vengeance, like he was finally getting... justice. _Courage_. He continued and his voice carried triumph and conviction because he could smell them both coming.

"I'll never be a joke. I'll never stop being who I am. I'll never not be gay. I'll never not be me. You will never, _ever_ beat that out of me." 

And he stepped up - the hardest single step he'd ever had to make in his life - until he was directly in front of both of them, and he glared upwards, defiantly - in the shadow of two tall trees, he was the axe that was about to make them fall. 

He got his answer in the nervous quiver of Jon's lip and the slight evasive shift of Stu's watery eyes as he dropped them in front of Blaine's searching stare, searching down to the marrow of their bones.

_You'll never change the way I am._

_Stop me if you dare._

VII  
Tina silently cheered. Sam quirked up a small smile. He relaxed just a little. Artie focused on being unobtrusive for the camera. Only Brittany's bright blue eyes darted back and forth nervously between the players in the game. Blaine rolled on. He had the momentum and the truth about him, shining and triumphant, like a brass shield. 

"I know what you did to me and Charlie. I know it was you two and Rob Garry that beat the shit out of us. I had to stay in the hospital for two weeks because of you. You guys broke both of Charlie's legs. You guys broke my ribs and my arms. I want you never to forget that there's someone out there that knows what an asshole you two are. _Because I know what you did._ And I'll _never_ forget."

Jon recovered quickly from his surprise. He shrugged and made an exaggerated gesture of looking at his nails. "Maybe. You can't prove any of that."

Tina snapped, "What about the video? You do know there's YouTube video of you three beating the crap out of Blaine and his friend, right?"

"So what? That would have been years ago. We can't get arrested for that... even if it was us, which we're not saying that it was."

"Maybe not," Brittany chimed in, "but it's still out there for everyone to see. Karma will get you two," and she nodded sagely.

Stu chose to be mocking. "What the hell are you wanting, Anderson? An apology?" His voice got cocky, even more so to cover up his discomfort, because Blaine had caught him out. "I can't be sorry for something you can't even prove happened. My dad got it covered up. It helps when your dad's the principal of your high school."

He flung the last sentence out like a rock from a slingshot, hoping to wound Blaine, because Stu had all the power and obviously some people needed the reminder. It didn't work.

"Why would your dad have to cover up something that didn't happen?" Brittany said alertly. 

Sam looked at her in admiration, but Blaine didn't have the time to appreciate Brittany's remark. He was having a hard time suppressing his fury. Tina put a hand on Blaine's forearm. 

"Your dad covered it up?" Blaine said indignantly. Despair wrung him out inside. _That's why nothing ever happened._ "That's outrageous." 

"I'm getting all of this for the record," Artie said politely - too politely. "For history's sake. Smile for the video!" 

Rage distorted Jon's handsome features - well, they had been handsome; Tina just thought he was about the ugliest person she'd ever met. Jon turned on Stu. "You asshole! Why did you say that?"

Stu rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter. So we beat up a couple of fairy boys. So what? The police can't touch us, my dad will never let anything happen to us, and we're going away to college in a few months. Big deal."

Sam thought despairingly: _Some things can't be fixed. Maybe hate can't be fixed._ He got restless. He was going to have to do something soon or the strain would kill him. He flexed and unflexed his hands. He stretched out his neck. But maybe Blaine wouldn't need protection from him after all. Blaine was getting to face his demons straight on. And... it was really helping him. He looked _lighter_. But it didn't mean that he was getting more careful, because what Blaine said next... wasn't careful.

"You two are the biggest cowards I've ever met." 

Blaine spat out all of his contempt and hurt and anger and frustration into those nine little words.

It wasn't wise. Blaine was sometimes so _dense_. 

So he had to do it. Sam walked in front of Blaine without thinking. He took the full brunt of the fist that Stu had aimed directly at Blaine's jaw. 

The force of the punch snapped Sam's neck back and he stumbled backwards, haltingly, one, two unsteady steps. He tripped over a bump in the grass behind him, and he fell without feeling the instinctual need to protect his head. It suddenly felt warm and sticky in his hair as the jagged scalp cuts started bleeding. He felt Stu leap on top of him like a tiger, snarling and yelling, choking him with his forearm and holding him hard against the ground. He flailed his arms, and managed to push Stu's face away a few times, distorted by rage, but Sam was just too dizzy. 

Blaine yelled for Sam and tried vainly with all of his frantic strength to pull the furious boy off of him, but all he got were handfuls of jacket, because Stu was just too strong and Blaine had less training. Sam heard the thunderous beat of Coach Bieste's footsteps running closer, and Tina and Brittany screaming hysterically (they managed to pull Jon away), and the Westerville fans throwing poppers down onto the track and in the stands behind and above them and _laughing_. The Titan fans were shrieking in fear because the poppers sounded like gunshots and they kept on coming, more and more pops, and laughing mixed with screams. Kids ran out of their seats and streamed out from the bleachers onto the track and the field in confusion. Sam smelled dirt and sweat and blood ran from the cuts and from his nose in thick rivulets. Coach Beiste's dense shadow yanked Stu directly off of him. Above all the hazy faces surrounding him - why couldn't he move? - the only things he could focus on now were Blaine's sudden silence and his wide golden eyes floating above the chaos, pouring fear and volumes of pain into his own. Sam could bear a lot of things, but he couldn't bear that. He blacked out. 

VIII  
He woke up in the nurse's office. 

It was later that afternoon - and it was much quieter, and cooler. The steady, soft hum of the air conditioner lulled his heartbeat. The sunshine had gone thick and golden, and slanted towards a pinkish sunset. Sam couldn't remember how he'd gotten to this room, but there was a rather painful reminder near the back of his head. It felt red and raw and bumpy. There were a few bandages on his scalp. It smelled antiseptic and clean here, like hand sanitizer; like fresh beginnings. 

There were a lot of adults around his white-sheeted cot. Carole and Burt, and the nurse, and Coach Bieste, and Principal Figgins all bore serious faces. Coach Bieste's lipstick looked too bright against her face, which was pale with concern. The green curtain surrounding the cot had been pulled open a little, and he saw Artie, and Brittany, who'd linked arms with Tina, and Blaine. Everyone was supremely quiet and they were all just... watching him. Sam felt vaguely confused, but he felt completely safe in this room. It took him a moment to realize that this feeling of security had been absent from his life for a long time, ever since the shooting incident had occurred. 

Carole let out a sob and her soft, sweet face crumpled like tissue paper. Her eyes were reddened, and damp tears had streaked her cheeks. "Sam! Thank goodness you're all right! The nurse says you have a concussion. You'll need to see a doctor tomorrow, and get an MRI scan. I didn't know this is what you meant! Why didn't you tell us you were having problems?"

Burt clasped Carole comfortingly about her shaking shoulders. He also looked like he was barely keeping it together, but he was trying to be strong for his wife. "We're going to take you home tonight and stay through the week. Your parents are already on the way up here with Stevie and Stacy."

Coach Bieste's alto resonated with pure concern. "Punkin, this wasn't smart." Principal Figgins just shook his head and tilted it towards the ceiling, closing his eyes; it seemed as if he was praying. Sam found some comfort in that, too.

He put a hand up to feel at the bandages. "I know. I know." He was all right, he was going to survive, but man, this hurt. _You have to hurt to make art_. "Just... just give me a sec. I'll go anywhere with you. I'll never pull this again. I promise. I just... I just want to talk to Blaine. Let me talk alone with him."

The adults moved away, murmuring. Tina and Blaine exchanged glances. Her lips thinned. "We'll call you two tomorrow," she said, and she pushed Artie in his wheelchair out of the room. Brittany followed close behind them, her skirt fluttering, with a single, searching look back at Sam lying in his cot. He pulled up his sheets to cover more of his body - he was feeling vulnerable, not oddly enough. Blaine took up a chair next to Sam's head and sat, leaning his dark head on his elbow. He still wore his Cheerios uniform, but it looked dirty and stained. Blaine never looked dirty. 

Sam turned his head to his left to look at him from his pillow - ow, it did hurt. His voice quavered, but his gaze was steady, and there was no haze in either of their eyes this time. "Remember when I said I wanted to be the hero for once, just like you?" 

Blaine smiled slightly. "Of course. But I'm not a hero. You are. You're my hero." It was the old Blaine smile, the smile that crinkled up the corners of his eyes. 

Sam shook his head. He was so tired, but he had to do this before he blacked out again. "I had to do it - you understand, right? I couldn't find Brittany when we were stuck in the choir room. I didn't know where Tina was. I couldn't protect you. You looked so scared, dude. You scared me to death. I knew I had to help you."

"Shhhh," Blaine said quietly and shook his head. "Don't talk. Just rest."

"I'm just glad you're doing so much better."

"Stu and Jon were caught on Artie's video. They're going to lose their scholarships."

 _Justice for Blaine, and a little for me._ "Good."

There was more emotion in Blaine's voice now, deep gratefulness, and renewed wonder at the goodness of good people in a terrible world. He bit his lips and spoke from his heart, which lay fully open, so Sam could take everything he needed to say into his own. 

"I used to tell Kurt to have courage, when Karofsky and the other guys bullied him. I never actually felt it for myself." He looked down at his lap, then up. "You're the one who gave me my courage back. You're the best, best friend a guy could ever have. Not only my courage... but my life. My _life_ , Sam. I have it back. I can live it now without looking over my shoulder."

There was childlike wonder there, and joy, and the euphoria of pure relief. Blaine's demons were finally all gone, and he'd won. Sam was heart-glad at that. But he was also so tired, so he just repeated his last words: "I'm just glad you're doing so much better." Then he qualified it: "Kurt said I had to protect you. He said he'd never let me forget it if you got hurt."

Blaine let a light chuckle escape his throat. "He wouldn't, but I'm happy it won't come to that. You just need to concentrate on getting better."

But Sam had to know the answer to his next question before he could finally sleep; so he asked it.

"Did we win?"

Blaine shook his head. He decided not to tell him that the fight had cancelled the game. "Not with our star quarterback out of commission."

"It doesn't matter, though." Sam finally smiled, and this time his smile also reached his eyes, and it was also joyful. 

"No, it doesn't. Not to me. I'll never forget this, Sam, what you did for me. Well, you and Evan, both. I don't think I'd mind if Evan popped in now and then."

"It's what bros do for bros. No problem." 

And Sam finally drifted off into restful sleep in the nurse's office. He didn't wake when Coach Bieste carried him to Burt's car. He dozed in the back seat on the way back home, and he sank into the clean sheets in his room and slept fully. His conscience had finally stilled, and he deserved a good night's rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tina's gun necklace can be found here: [ Clockwork Couture](http://www.clockworkcouture.com/accessories/necklaces/the-duellist-cantosonic-wave-gun.html).
> 
> There will be an extra "bonus" alt-ending chapter for the romantic!Blam shippers. They've been so supportive of this fic that I was inspired to write them a treat. If romantic!Blam is not your ship, the story ends here. 
> 
> Feel free to send me drabble or prompt ideas (I'm on Tumblr - search for chemiglee, or you can send me a message here on AO3) and I could write more in this 'verse if there is interest. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. You're all awesome.


	9. This Could Be The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine and Sam stand at the brink of something new and unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly different in that it assumes Sam fell asleep in the car and not in his bed at home at the end of Never Forget This. This sounds like a stupid minor point, but it's... sort of important.
> 
> If romantic!Blam is not your ship, this chapter can be ignored. The main storyline ended in chapter 8.

It was the evening of the day that Blaine finally got his life back. The least he felt he could do was to help put Sam to bed. 

The reddish sun had just gone down, so there was just a thin layer of orange underneath a darkening band of dark blue. A waxing gibbous moon was peeking out from a shadowy veil. A few stars dotted the sky, sparking it with twinkles of pale blue light. Crickets bravely chirped from the grassy Hudson-Hummel backyard. It was blissfully quiet and still and much cooler. It wasn't exactly late, just nine o'clock or so, but Sam was sleeping as if he hadn't gotten any of it in days - and judging from the graying hollows underneath his eyes, he probably hadn't. Burt held Sam up, underneath his armpits, and Blaine held tightly onto his ankles. Carole walked behind them, through the front door, up the stairs, past the middle landing, up the second, steeper flight, and down the narrow, picture-hung hallway to the room next to Kurt's. She was struggling to carry Sam's (unused) football gear, and the full bag was knocking against her legs. "Be careful," she fretted, "we shouldn't wake him up."

He was unexpectedly heavy, since his muscles were completely relaxed, but Blaine didn't drop him. 

Once they were in Sam's room, Carole dropped off the bag and nodded at them. "I'll go make some cocoa. You two get him ready for bed. Blaine..." and she smiled warmly, a motherly smile that warmed their hearts as it touched her eyes. "Thank you for helping us. Him."

"You're welcome, Carole. I.. I owe him a lot." She turned away, giving Burt a meaningful glance, and flicked on the little lamp on the bedside table. As her footsteps died away, back down the hall and downstairs, Burt and Blaine pulled off his dirty t-shirt and jeans and shoes. They didn't talk. Burt tossed the t-shirt and smelly socks into the overflowing laundry hamper, but Blaine couldn't help himself from stroking his fingers lightly over the side seams, up and down the legs, caressingly, before he slowly - regretfully - folded them into a neat square. 

Burt's sharp eyes saw it. Blaine turned to put the jeans on top of the socks, and when he returned to Sam's bedside, he was met with an even stare. Blaine suddenly felt guilty, like his hand was caught in the cookie jar, or - or if he'd been cheating. His eyes dropped. His cheeks burned. He put his clasped hands behind his back, and he noticed with mortification that his Cheerios uniform was also appallingly stained with sweat and he needed a shower and his white tennis shoes desperately needed cleaning.

Burt crossed his arms. Blaine waited it out and flicked his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. Wrapped up in his clean sheets, Sam emitted a soft mumble. He looked utterly peaceful. Messy blonde tendrils tumbled over onto his forehead. 

Finally, Burt relaxed his shoulders and gave a soft, resigned sigh. He reached up and scratched the back of his head. 

"Look," he said quietly, "as long as you've settled whatever account you have with Kurt, it doesn't bother me. Just... just treat him right."

Blaine lifted up his head and looked Burt straight in his eyes, two piercing blue orbs peering through his smaller frame from underneath the brim of his hat. All of a sudden, he didn't feel ashamed or haunted. _Today was all about overcoming your fears, Blaine. Don't be afraid of what you want._ "Thank - thank you, sir." He coughed. He didn't sound clear-headed or resolute. Not yet. 

Burt reached out and put an arm on Blaine's shoulder, man to man. "Don't thank me. It's up to Sam. Be careful, all right? And you're still welcome to come over, any time." He nodded, let go, pulled down the front of his red flannel shirt, then turned away to leave. He carefully shut the door behind him, with a slight squeak of the door hinges. 

First, the smell. Blaine rooted about in Sam's football bag on the floor by the bed and found... what was this, body spray? He tentatively put his nose to the nozzle, then held it away from his face and spritzed the air. The sudden blast of scent was therefore a surprise, but it overwhelmed him, the warm, the spicy, the sweet, the salt. It hit him in the gut; it wrapped about his tongue; it wafted through and spread tendrils inside his nose and his throat. It was hardened muscles, and wide blue eyes framed by golden lashes, and skin unbroken by care, and broad smiles touched by sunlight and sweetness and lips - what lips. Blaine's left hand curled at his side, as if he was grasping Sam's flesh just by the smell, because that's how true to him this spray was, this essence. 

The rush of desire made him dizzy. He fell into the chair next to Sam's bed and dropped the body spray, and it rolled and rolled to rest underneath the bed. He had to put his face in his hands, because how could he feel like this? He crossed his legs anxiously and pulled at his uniform to try to remedy how uncomfortably tight his pants got. A little voice of doubt whispered: _This is your best friend. He's straight. I can't crush on him again. He can't love you back._

He'd spent five years running away from fearful shadows with long teeth and now here was another; more beautiful, more seductive, and maybe more dangerous. His heart fluttered, because it was afraid. But if it was one thing he'd learned from all of this, it was that he couldn't lose anything by trying. And if he won Sam's heart, well, a few minutes of awkwardness would be worth it. Sam's heart was the world and at that moment that was all that Blaine wanted. 

"Dude."

"Hmmm? What? Oh. Oh, Sam. Hey there." His voice sounded hoarse. 

Sam looked completely awake. He rubbed his eyes like a child and shifted around in bed to sit up, leaning against the wall. He was rumpled, but he looked much more restored. "Just now. I was having a good dream. I can't remember a lot of it... I think we were Blonde Chameleon and Nightbird. We were testing out the Nightflyer. I was riding shotgun and you were piloting. It was great. We were flying. We were bros."

 _Bros._ His disappointment hurt as it fell over the lip of the cliff, but Blaine raised up his chin and put a brave face on it. At least I know I won't get hurt. But he said it softly, endearingly, because he knew who he was saying all of this to: "We're best bros. And don't forget what we promised. We'll go save the world, you and I."

Blaine's eyes gathered tears at their corners and the glare of the pale lamplight didn't help. 

"Duh, of course. Hey - look, are you okay? Are you crying? Oh shit. Shit. C'mere. Sit by me." Sam patted the bed by his body in a friendly fashion, and Blaine obediently sat. He couldn't tear himself away from looking at him, with how concerned he was. 

"Is it because of today? Because I stepped in front of those guys? Look, it was nothing, I promise. Compared with what you've done for me?" 

He knew it might be weird. He did it anyway. Blaine took Sam's hand. It felt firm and strong and broad. Sam's fingers wrapped responsively around his. Sam kept talking to him in a rush, trying to get him to understand. 

"Remember the video you made for me, for college applications? And you talked to me again when I was working out too much. You value me as a person, dude. I help out a lot - Mercedes, Rory - because I like being good to people. I love people." 

Blaine used his other hand to wipe the tears away. His nose felt stuffed up, and he could feel himself getting all red and puffy, but he nodded silently. 

"I even came back to Ohio because of Glee club. But I don't remember the last person who did any of those nice things for me, except you. That's why I did it, all of it. I wanted to give you something back. And I'm glad you have all of it back."

"You're my hero. I think - I think I told you that, back at school."

Sam smiled. "Yeah. That was nice, too. I like being your hero. A lot."

Sam's voice had dropped a timbre or two, going deeper and richer. They were still holding hands, but he didn't want Sam to let go, or to ever let go. He didn't. He reached up with his free hand and nudged a hidden tear away from the corner of Blaine's right eye.

Blaine felt the soft brush of his skin and the warm streak of the tear against his stubbly cheek, and he bit sharply down on his lip to stop from crying out. The sheer volume of feeling growing slowly inside of him was treacherously, enticingly sweet, and heady, and heavy. _This is it. This is him. This is what I've always wanted._

To stop himself from going too far - to stop himself from covering him helplessly in kisses - Blaine said, "So. So, now what?"

Sam let his arm drop. "I don't know how to approach this, dude. I've never done anything like this before."

"Done what?" Blaine held his breath and sat still - so very still - to listen, because every word was suddenly so very important, because he thought he could hear what it was Sam was trying to say, but he wanted so very badly to hear Sam say it. 

But all Sam did was laugh. "Don't tell me you're still that dense after all we've been through these past couple of weeks. I swear that you're not. Okay. Is this direct enough for you?"

It was fast. He pulled at the collar of Blaine's Cheerios uniform and yanked and all of a sudden, there were lips. Lips pressing on his, soft and yielding and as it turned out - very, very skilled. Blaine tilted his head to his right and there was now a tongue exploring tentatively around the edges of his, then curling around it, nimbly, like a gymnast, limber and light. He felt himself open up, get warmer, get more intimate. Blaine felt like he was drowning, but this - this just might be a very beautiful kind of death. He suckled at Sam's bottom lip and got a throaty groan for his trouble, which reverberated and thrilled him from the top of his head to the tips of his curled up toes. He had to get closer, just to get more; Blaine found Sam's sides and contented himself with digging his fingers hard into his ribs. Sam wrapped his arms firmly around his back, then ran them up and down his spine, and came to rest at his waist. There was a slight dip there at both sides, and Sam's fingers felt cozy and secure there, like they belonged there, like they were home. 

They broke for air. They both opened their eyes and ended up staring straight into the other's. There was a gasp from Blaine, and Sam's pupils looked blown and hazy. He had no idea how his own irises looked, but Sam couldn't look away either, so he must be - well, he felt - _lighter_. 

"Well," Blaine breathed, "Well, shit." He chuckled. They blinked and the spell was over and they parted, regretfully. 

"Did you get _that_ message?" Sam traced the edge of his cheekbone with a gentle finger.

"Loud and clear. But - but? Brittany?" Blaine pressed his lips together; Sam's looked red and kiss-swollen and very, very irresistible. 

"I don't think Brittany will mind. I'll still talk to her, but we're probably going to break up anyway, because of MIT. We know it's coming. She'll fit in better with all those smart people. Besides. It's _you_ , Blaine. How could anyone resist? It's too powerful even for me, dude. Uh... but stuff, well, I've never - "

"We don't have to go fast. We'll just go at our own pace." Blaine cupped Sam's cheek and smiled.

"What about Kurt?"

Sam looked concerned and vulnerable - so vulnerable, as if to say, "This is going to sting" - but it was for Blaine, not for himself, and that made his heart skip a beat.

"That'll be a lot harder," Blaine admitted, and looked downcast, but he didn't pull away his hand. "But Kurt and I aren't together. Kurt's dating other people. I still miss him, and I care for him, and he's a friend - he'll always be a friend. He was my first in everything. I can't shut him out, Sam. I can't. He might be hurt. He will be hurt. "

"I know. And you don't have to shut him out. It's just that, uh, he had a crush on me. I was okay with it. I mean, look at me," and Sam flexed a bicep and flashed a white, cocky grin, then put his arm back snugly around Blaine. Blaine nestled into it, turning about to settle into the crook of his shoulder. "But he wasn't for me. You have to find out what it is that you want, and that means dating around, and yeah, so far, it's only been girls. But if what I want now is you, that's just how it's going to be."

"That's how it's going to be," Blaine echoed. "This isn't going to be easy, any of it. You know that, right?"

"I know it isn't. Nothing worth having is easy to get."

"You already have me, though. But -" and Blaine peered at the clock - "aren't you tired?" _How beautiful he is_ , he thought, his mind going unfocused and so, so relaxed and floating and happy and he still felt... _lighter_. 

"Yeah. We can talk about this some more in the morning. Stay with me a bit, until I go to sleep. You can be the big spoon this time. You can kiss me on my neck, if you want. It's one of the things I like. You'll see."

Blaine chuckled. Sam turned over on his side and reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, cloaking them both in the soft, moonlit darkness. He pulled Blaine's arm around him. The silvery light faintly glowed through the thin curtains and onto the bed, running over Sam's form like water. Blaine stayed like that, embracing Sam's long, athletic body against his, curled up comfortably and still. 

Blaine put his arm around him and a hand over him to feel the breaths, in, out, in, out, and put his chin in the corner between the back of the neck and his shoulder. There was just a faint trace of the body spray scent lingering there, just a film. Blaine's lips found it and he nuzzled it, over and over, to the rhythm of Sam's sighs, not because it smelled wonderful - it did, spicy and warm and sweet and salty - but because underneath it was Sam, all Sam, all that he was, which was all Blaine had ever wanted. _And this could just be the beginning, too. I can't wait to hear how the rest of the story goes._


	10. This Is How We Stay Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family and friends are how Sam makes it through.
> 
> Gen fic, no ships.
> 
> Written to thank everyone for their support of the fic. :)

I

Sam knew, every year, that spring had come when the birds would start up at four in the morning, chirping their heads off. Sometimes he wouldn’t need to set the alarm on his phone, so the Batman cartoon theme song would go off while he was in the shower. And, if the dawn was pretty, it was much easier to wake up refreshed. The dawn, Sam had discovered, was pretty everywhere - whether you were living in a ramshackle motel in Lima, or in a little white frame house in Nashville, overgrown by morning glory bushes, or in a little wire-fenced brick house just on the border between Ohio and Kentucky. This year, his mother swore, her new morning glories hadn’t bloomed, even though she knew he was in Ohio for a perfectly good reason. 

Sam liked the dawn. He was probably one of the few teenagers on earth who didn’t mind getting up early. 

This time, however, he’d also sustained a (slight?) head injury - or so the raw bumps on the back of his head told him, and the bandages, and the soreness - so it took longer for him to come around. Much longer. It was a very groggy process. Sam rolled over onto his side ( _ow_ ), picked up his phone, checked the time, then threw it to the floor next to the bed. He flopped onto his back again. (Double _ow_ , and a little dizziness.) It literally felt like he’d been thrown into a sack and beaten to within an inch of his life. 

He vaguely remembered those two guys from Thurston jump on him, female screaming, firework poppers, Coach barking orders, and Blaine’s hazel full moons for eyes, drinking in the sight of drying blood and tears and snot and dirt. That was when everything had finally, mercifully, gone dark. It wasn’t dark now. His eyelids fluttered open and shut, taking in the weather outside, and how fresh and brand-new everything appeared. He was a country boy, after all, and he knew that the outdoors mattered. 

The sky promised to stay a perfect, clear robin’s egg-blue through the glorious sunshine. He sensed the coolness, but it was going to be one of those days where it got much hotter later on, and you’d regret not wearing layers. He gingerly stretched out and pulled his arms out over the covers, wincing painfully; yesterday’s fight had apparently been _real_ exciting.

He heard a voice on a phone, Carole’s, as she paced up and down in the hallway, rising as she approached, falling as she walked away. “We’ll see you in a bit, Mary… yes, oh, oh dear. Be careful. We’ll be at the hospital. No, Sam can’t eat before the MRI…”

She stepped away. He smelled the waft of bacon and strong coffee stealing in from under the door and from downstairs. Too bad he wasn’t going to be able to enjoy it, but the beautiful breakfasty smell was still soul-filling and reassuringly familiar. His absolute favorite breakfast was chocolate chip pancakes with bacon, which his mom saved for Sundays, after church. He remembered how she would put the chocolate chips in the uncooked batter in the shape of a heart, or a smiley face, or a sun. He even remembered that the cast-iron frying pan was Granny’s, and that he’d inherit it someday, “when you have your own family, Sammy.”

He was glad that she’d been gone to a better place, long before he’d done a backward slide, stripping for cash. He’d looked hella sexy, gotten some awesome tail. But he knew that she’d disapprove of what she’d see as selling his body - even if it was to buy Stevie and Stacy school clothes or help pay the gas bill. He could hear her gentle voice now: ”You’re better than that, Sammy. Your body is a temple. You’re more than you think you are.”

Why didn’t he actually feel it?

Carole’s voice and feet were coming back towards his door. ”You don’t think anything will…? I hope everything will go smoothly. I know Dwight’s upset. No, we have cookout food, but you can pick up a veggie tray at a Walmart somewhere…”

They were coming to see him. He heard Carole say goodbye to his mother, and her heavier step just outside the bedroom door before she knocked. Sam realized, belatedly, that he should be making himself look decent for the hospital visit. He scrabbled around to sit up and cover up before she could come in, avert her eyes (while she’d raised two boys before Sam, she was still a naturally discreet sort of person) and remind him to get going. 

II

In the afternoon, Sam’s entire family was waiting on the street in front of the Hudson-Hummel home. They’d timed it perfectly. His visit to Lima Memorial, just for the MRI, had taken all morning. In the office, Burt had shaken his head and put a fatherly arm about his shoulders, and Carole held his hand on the other side of his seat. It was nice to be taken care of, even though they weren’t always around. 

But now that his family wanted to see him, they’d haul ass. It was like them, just not on normal days. They could spend nearly an entire day wandering aimlessly around Walmart or Target, or nearly an entire Saturday nestled in their shabby couch cushions talking about what to do (and then end up just watching movies, big bowls of popcorn in hand, or cleaning out the garage, or playing football in the backyard), but when it came to emergencies, they had hustle. The drive was two hours on I-75S, so 130 miles. If his mom was driving (and Sam was sure she would be), they’d be here a lot sooner than that. His mother was a big fan of NASCAR. 

They unrolled the windows down to get the spring air into the car. As Burt carefully drove down the street towards the house, Sam and Carole could see the family standing anxiously on the sidewalk. His mom and dad had their heads turned, looking down the other side of the road. Their body language was stiff and concerned. So, it was the kids who saw them first. Stacy shrieked like a banshee, braids bobbing up and down, as they approached:

“They’re here! Sammy! He’s here!”

Both his parents whirled around and walked quickly to the car. While Burt parked, Stacy kept on screeching excitedly. Sam had forgotten just how loud she got when she was happy, like she wanted the whole world to know just why everything was so amazing. 

Stevie tried to hold her back, protectively, away from the car door. “Don’t run into the road, dummy!” Stevie was looking considerably more down, but there was a gleam in his eyes: he was glad to see him. 

Both kids were a lot taller, more than he’d thought they’d be. Sam recognized the hand-me-down plaid shirt that Stevie was wearing. His mom and dad looked… older, and threads of gray hair shot through the blond. They looked smaller and sadder. He had no idea how all those tears got into his eyes. 

He didn’t have time to cry. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled from the car, or he flew out of it - neither Burt nor Carole stopped them - and it hurt, ow, ow, ow - but the hug was more healing than all the doctor advice in Ohio. Sam put his face in his dad’s shoulder and he felt his mother’s warm arms circling them both, and a soft, slow Tennessee drawl breathed out in his ear: ”Sammy.” It sounded like sweet tea, and barbecue, and a little white frame house overgrown by morning glories, and home. He closed his eyes. He vaguely remembered saying “You wanted it to end like this,” a long, long time ago, but no, that wasn’t really the case, not completely. He hadn’t wanted to it to end like this without seeing his family again. Blaine and Tina and the New Directions were wonderful, really wonderful, but they could never take the place of his family. So, if he’d had his mom and dad and Stevie and Stacy there, in the choir room, what he’d said would have been truer. Even though Sam hadn’t wanted to die, it would have been more comforting to go on to the next world with them instead of apart from them. 

III

On the patio set, Burt and his dad were talking about sports (probably; they both liked sports), beers in hand. The grill lid was down, and they all smelled the first waft of hot dogs and burgers. It wasn’t hard to notice that the men were eyeing each other, sizing each other up like - like they were about to fight. Sam would glance over at them worriedly, now and then, but right now he was too busy trying to catch up with Stevie and Stacy. Carole and his mom were walking in and out of the kitchen with trays and food and tall glasses of soda. They opted for the high road, white wine instead of Coors. The ladies seemed to be getting along a lot better. After all, they were astonishingly alike. 

Sam and the kids were lying in the lush grass, staring up at the sky. All three of the Evans wore sunglasses, and Sam had to shift over a bit to accommodate Stacy, who had nestled her warm blonde head in the crook of his shoulder. The sun spread over all of them, and they felt the hot warmth seep through their skins. It felt good. It felt so good. 

“You’re getting big, kid. You both are,” Sam said fondly. He reached out to touch Stevie on the shoulder. 

Stevie had separated himself, Sam noticed, and he wiggled away from his hand. ”Yeah,” he said, but the monosyllable was flat. He reapplied sunscreen conscientiously. 

“Sammy! Hey - I have a boyfriend now.” Stacy giggled into his chest and her pink sunglasses poked into his armpit. It was cute. She still had the same laugh, a ripple, hee hee hee. 

Sam blinked, but he kept his tone light. ”Do I have to come over and make sure he’s good enough for you?” _She’s eight, for crying out loud_. 

“His name’s Josh. He looks like Harry from One Direction. He - ” Stacy lowered her voice to a whisper, conspiratorally - “He kissed me on the cheek.” 

Stevie huffed, but he said nothing, burning in a mix of scorn for Harry from One Direction and scorn for Sam. His little brother tossed the sunscreen bottle aside - wow, that looked like something he’d do - and inched closer, but he kept his arms crossed, tight to his sides, and looked petulant. 

“Stevie. Come on, I haven’t seen you in months and months. The least you can do is to c’mere.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Stevie’s mouth thinned, in a creepy imitation of their mother, when she got mad. 

“Stevie! You promised!” Stacy cried. ”You’ll make him stay away more!”

“What? No, no! Stacy, no - ” Sam half tried to get up, but Stacy wriggled in closer and put one small hand on his chest. 

“Don’t talk to him. He moved away and then he got hurt. Stop getting hurt.” Stevie was angry. Storm clouds gathered on his brow; he was going to start yelling soon, and then there’d be a tantrum. Ordinarily, if there was a TV around, he’d put in Lord of the Rings, if they had a DVD player that year, or electricity running; or if their parents hadn’t managed to scrape together enough that month, Sam would just play guitar, or sing with them, and that would be all he’d have to do to help calm the kids down. But there wasn’t any TV, and he didn’t want there to be one, anyway. He really wanted to talk. 

“No, no, no - ” and Stacy started crying, marking his t-shirt with tears. 

“Okay, I’m listening,” Stevie said grimly. _Goddamn it if he didn’t look like Mom, and he raises his eyebrows like her, too_. Stacy snuffled into his chest, which smothered her sobs a little. 

Sam used his free hand to shake out his hair. ”My friend Blaine was hurting, you see? I thought of a way to help him. I helped him stand up to some bullies.”

Stacy raised her head and leaned up on her elbows to rest her pointed chin on Sam’s chest. ”Bullies?” she squeaked. ”Did they do bad things to him?”

“Very bad things,” Sam said. ”They backed down. They hit me, though.” _Ow_.

“You don’t have to be a hero for people to love you,” Stevie said evenly. His bangs, too, looked like they were long overdue for a cut, but his sullen glare cut between them, just as his words punched Sam in the gut. ”People aren’t as helpless as you think, Sammy.”

“I had to help him, ” Sam said defensively. Why was he justifying his actions to a ten year old? 

“Is he better?”

“I think so.” The smell of sizzling meat got stronger, and it sounded like dishes were being put on the table. 

“So, good for him. But why couldn’t you stay with us until you graduated and then gone to Ohio?” His little brother finally relented, and got close enough on Sam’s other side to curl a plaid-clad arm about his waist.

So, there it was. Stacy’s lip wobbled again. 

“We’ve been over this, Stevie. The Glee club at McKinley needed me, or they wouldn’t have been able to compete.”

“It’s just a club. There’s Glee clubs in Kentucky, too. What’s wrong with any of them?”

What was the Glee club to him? He tried to explain, and in the end, just like writing (which was also hard for him), it was a matter of pinning down his feelings. It still felt vague and imprecise, but it was all true. He said, “Because they’re my friends, and I’ve never had better friends, even when we were fighting. We all support each other. Not better than you guys. Just different. You guys had Mom and Dad. They didn’t have anyone.”

Stevie mulled it over and went silent. He was always the quietest one, the thinker of the three. Sam had been eight when Stevie was born. He’d been jealous of the growing thing inside his mom, and then of the squalling red-faced thing taking up all his family’s time. It hadn’t been until Sam had sneaked in to look at the sleeping baby they’d named Steven - after his mother’s father - that he’d realized that he wouldn’t lose his parents’ love after all. They were too different. Stevie was more self-contained, so getting to know him had been difficult. Sam had been the one to teach Stevie how to play Magic the Gathering at age four. That was when the family had realized that Stevie had a liking for nerdy games too, and they’d been real brothers after that. 

“And you can date them,” Stacy said wisely. Stacy was a little more flighty, but she got on with people better than Stevie. She wrote. She wrote stories at school that made adults sit up and take notice. There’d been talk of putting her in a program for gifted children. Boy-craziness had taken over her stories, as his mom had told him. “People like to pair up together.”

He laughed. ”That’s right. You can date your friends.”

“Mom said you dated a lot,” Stacy giggled. ”You gave some of them rings, but you didn’t get married.”

“When you love someone, you want them to know that you think they’re special enough for you.”

“You don’t have to give anyone a ring to make them love you more or make yourself feel better,” Stevie said.

“Yeah,” Sam said, a little heavily. ”I know. And I don’t have to be a hero, either. I don’t know why I do.”

“Just love yourself and then it’ll all fix itself,” Stacy said solemnly.

 _Out of the mouths of babes_. Sam hugged them both a little tighter, and it made a perfect day even more perfect. 

IV

The sun was just going down, and Stevie and Stacy, crammed full of food, had been carried into the Hudson-Hummels’ living room; it’d been a long, long day, and their energy was completely burned out. Stacy fit into the loveseat, and Stevie had snuggled into Carole’s mom’s white knitted crochet blanket. The happy wreckage of the cookout sat on the table, but no one was getting up to clear it away. This was too important. Carole had turned on the porch lights and lit paper lanterns, and they gently illuminated the backyard with a soft yellow glow. Moths flittered through the evening air. It was peaceful, but the ensuing conversation didn’t start out that way. It was tense.

“So, son, you going to tell us what’s going on?” his dad asked. 

Sam sat, all alone, on a plastic chair, and he felt like when he was younger and he’d broken a house rule. Burt and his dad were still sitting opposite each other at the patio set, but they’d drawn their chairs out to face him, and his mom and Carole sat together on a little wooden bench. 

A steely look darted, like the moths, between Burt and his father. “I’ve half a mind to drag you back to Kentucky with us.” His mother nodded and looked worried - so worried. She wrung her hands and crossed her legs. 

Burt stiffened, and an undertone of danger ran through his voice. ”You saying there’s something wrong with my supervision? Because he’s like a son to us.”

“I’m saying this happened under your watch, Burt,” his dad snapped, giving the other man a pointed glance. Burt lifted the brim of his brown cap and matched him, glare for glare. His dad kept on, as if they weren’t fighting a war. ”And he’s not your son, he’s our son. You should have been keeping tabs on him better.”

“Dad, no - ” Sam stepped in before Burt could interject with something a little more inflammatory. ”They didn’t know anything about it. I’m eighteen, Dad. And they were away - “

“And if you’d been with us, this wouldn’t have happened,” his mother said, in that tone which meant _don’t argue with me_. 

Carole deftly slipped in her own two cents. ”Maybe not a fight at a game, but something else.”

“Maybe not,” and his father relented just a little. ”But at least we’d be closer to you, son. You have no idea how we felt when we heard, Sammy. It was our fault you got hurt, and we’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

“It’s parenting,” Burt said. ”You don’t stop thinking about your kid whether they’re there with you or not.”

His father glanced at Burt. ”Yeah. But still. I still don’t like him being so far away. We’re okay with you staying in Ohio until graduation, maybe even stay the summer if we visit, but - son, you should think about going to college in Kentucky. Your mother hasn't stopped pacing the floor since you left.”

 _College. In Kentucky. Why not New York?_ And at the same time, a small part of him sighed in relief, because despite Glee club, despite his friends - he did miss his family, his own family, desperately. Stevie and Stacy were growing up way too fast, and his parents were getting older also, way too fast. 

It was all too much to process, though. Sam rubbed his temples tiredly - _ow_. ”I can’t even think about college right now.”

“It’s something you’ll need to consider,” his dad said, firmly, in the tone that said _That’s that, Sammy, you think about this hard_. 

“We need to talk about why this happened in the first place.” his mother stated flatly, cutting through the bluster of the men in one fell swoop. She was determined and she’d set her chin in that gesture which meant _Don’t you cut me off, Dwight Evans_.

His mother was a gentle soul, but just because she spoke softly didn’t mean she was weak or shortsighted. She was, uh, what did Blaine call people like his mom? A prag - pragmatist? Sam remembered when there’d been a bully of his own, some kid who’d kept on taking his lunch money in middle school and who’d jeer at his mended jeans and unfashionable shoes. His mother had been the one to sit him down and talk about being polite and telling adults about any trouble - and getting fit. His bully left him alone after that. 

And then there was the one and only hunting trip with his dad and their friends, when he’d thought being a man meant showing off how powerful you were. He’d hit the little spotted doe. The blood and its pain had made him sick, and he’d cried, like a weak, helpless little kid. And even though his dad had been sympathetic, Sam had known, or told himself (which was the same) that his dad’s opinion of him had dropped, in disappointment, because his pride and joy, his oldest son, hadn’t had more guts. 

That was when he’d fallen in love with sports, because sports didn’t care if you were poor, or if you were chicken (because you could hide it), or if you couldn’t read as well as everyone else. Sports made you a man. He lost his baby fat, got tall, and later, he began lifting weights. He got more confident, because his mirror image looked good, so he felt good. At home, he felt confident enough to pick at his dad’s old guitar, and taught himself how to play. And then, he found out he could sing. He loved listening to his Granny’s Barry Manilow records, and his parents’ old classic rock, but he discovered more and more music in a little shop, far away from the school, where he’d hide for an hour or two every weekend afternoon or late, after football practice. 

Sometimes he’d give the guitar a rest, and practice his impressions in the mirror. He’d first started the impressions to make Stacy and Stevie laugh, because sometimes they wouldn’t have cable (bills again), and it kept them entertained, and helped him to laugh, too, and forget the threat of food stamps and thrift shop clothes. 

He’d hidden the guitar, and the singing, and the impressions, from kids at school, because somehow, it didn’t feel like the right place to be yourself there. All of that stuff made you stick out, and that was high school suicide. To make things more complicated, he then got popular. Because that’s how high school worked: when you look good, you’re popular, and when you’re athletic, you can take care of yourself, so he did whatever he had to do to look good. Guitar and singing and impressions didn’t help a guy’s image. It didn’t help you to be a man. So he played guitar, sang only at home, did impressions for the kids, and saved sports mostly for school. It worked. 

Sam carried that lesson with him to Ohio. You make it look good and no one will notice that you’re someone that you’re not. It just doesn’t help you feel good, but as long as you look and act the part, no one else is going to notice. 

It had been a little show choir in a hick town that had shown him the way - that you didn’t have to pretend, that you didn’t have to lie or hide, that you could say what you wanted to say, and trust enough that he wouldn’t get hurt. That you could pick up a guitar or sing Copacabana and it was okay. That you could be Taylor Lautner and Evan Evans and it was okay. It had been that little show choir that solidified all the messages his parents had given him all his life, about being a man, which had always made sense, and which he'd tried to follow, but until then, hadn’t held as much meaning and truth as they did now. 

And if he’d had a lapse in the choir room during a freak accident with a gun, it was actually… okay. He was human, instead of superhuman. Now, he had to finally be a man, and that felt much more difficult, because it was more than putting on a costume and a fake voice. 

“Sam, care to explain, then?” his father asked. 

V

 _Grow up. Take responsibility. And stop hiding._

Maybe it wouldn’t happen all at once, this self-esteem stuff? But he’d start here. He took a breath. It was actually easier than he’d thought.

“Dad. Don’t blame Burt and Carole.”

 _That wasn’t so bad._

“They didn’t know that any of this was going on. It’s not their fault.”

So far, no one looked angry. Burt’s shoulders relaxed visibly, and Carole finally took a sip of her wine. 

“Whose fault is it, then?”

Sam took in a deep breath. ”It’s mine. I had to be the hero, because I wanted to help my friend.”

His mother’s face uncreased, and she gave him a tentative, sweet smile. 

“I got hurt. And it wasn’t your fault, either. This was something I decided I would do.”

“Is he better?”

“Yes.”

“Was it worth it to you?”

“Yes.”

But his dad didn’t give a Stevie kind of response. ”Why did he need you?”

“Because you taught me to help other people, Mom. Dad. I thought I could help him, and I did.”

His dad gave him a look.

“I can’t hate that, can I, because we’ve tried to raise you right… I’m glad you listened.”

“You need to know why I did it.”

Because Sam wasn’t much of a story-spinner, it took over an hour to get out a coherent re-telling of Blaine’s experience at the first Sadie Hawkins dance. He found he still got upset, and then he’d have to take a breather, or get up and walk around to clench and unclench his fists, but haltingly, slowly, he managed to explain just why Blaine had needed a friend. 

The sun had fully gone down by the time he was finished. Burt and Carole were holding each other tightly by the end, and Burt had taken off his cap to wipe at his eyes. 

His parents looked at each other and there was a collective, silent, sigh of relief. A cool little wind came by to ruffle the edges of his mom’s favorite dress, and it brushed across the lingering fever of Sam’s brow. 

“The poor thing,” his mom said finally. ”I’m glad you could help him, but oh - I’m still sorry you got hurt. You’re still my baby, Sammy, my first-born. You’ll never stop being my baby. But you’re so grown up now - you’re a man.”

His father gave Sam a searching look, glanced over at Burt and Carole, then back at his son. He got up, stiffly, and pulled his chair towards his son, and sat. He draped his arm around his boy’s shoulders and looked at his son, straight in the eyes.

Sam didn’t look away. It was a moment, and he knew he would never see his father in the same way again. Time slowed down and stilled, and there was a hum of insects, and a gentle touch of evening breeze on his cheek.

“I understand it better. But, look. You’ll never stop worrying us - but you have to take care of yourself. You are a man.”

_Yes. I am._

Sam felt _lighter_.

“If you play sports, or you play guitar, or you sing, or you put on a damn costume and fly around like Superman, it doesn’t matter. You’re our man and we’re proud of you. And real men take care of the people they love. But they also take care of themselves.”

Their hug was the best hug Sam remembered, and for whatever reason, hugging him didn’t hurt at all. it felt like resolution, like when his mom told him he’d started to walk for the first time. He’d fallen over and cried, and then bumped into the corner of the coffee table and scraped his elbows, and _then Sammy, I helped you up, and after that, when you fell down, you got up by yourself. You just did it._

He could do it again, except it meant dealing with bigger questions than just the simple act of walking. But it was a good start to have, out there in a little backyard on a beautiful spring evening in Lima, Ohio. 

He didn’t know what was going to happen to him. He didn’t know if he was going to college in Kentucky or New York, or what the hell he was actually going to do with the life he was given. And he’d only just begun to grasp what being a man was really about. He was really glad that he’d have his family there to help sort it all out, and his friends too - help him finally learn to love himself, so that he could finally fix himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this to thank readers for their continued support of the fic. Enjoy! I hope you liked it. :)


End file.
